White Shadow (Pureblood, Book I)

Regrettably, its beauty went all but unnoticed. Rarely did any of the Malfoys leave the house unless on matters of strictest business, and that didn't happen very often at all. It seemed a puzzlement, in fact, that the surroundings stayed as lovely as they did. Were one to watch the goings-on of the manor in question, one would find that no one ever attended to the perfectly manicured garden. No one ever cleaned the spotless fountain, or groomed the willows, or raked the leaves. No one ever cleaned the stone benches that were placed in the trees' shadows in a manner so picturesque. No one ever tended to the topiary or refilled the birdbaths. The house and all its grounds seemed eerily self-sufficient, as though it was kept by magic.

The Malfoy family was small, made up of only three people: a mother, a father, and a son. Lucius Malfoy, the father and head of household, was a tall, wiry man with thin blond hair that was slightly longer than the norm, along with two dark, beady eyes. He was the sort of man that one would serve on bended knee with little more than one powerful glance. His wife, Narcissa Malfoy, was similarly built, with very long and thin white-blond hair that brushed her waist, but she did not have his presence. She seemed the type to fulfill the role of Lady Macbeth -- soft spoken and polite, and yet cold, calculating, and dangerous when provoked.

Between them, they had a son named Draco, who, at the time this story begins, was nearly eleven years old. He was the spitting image of his father (a "chip off the old block," as Lucius liked to say), from his pale golden hair to his stormy gray eyes and gangly physique. And what would any family be without the loyal pet? Draco, for his tenth birthday, had received a pure-breed Tokenize kitten, which was white from the tip of her nose to the end of her tail. Narcissa recommended the name Angel, while Lucius suggested Ivory. But Draco was not known to consider the opinions of others, and shortly after his parents had left him to play with her alone, he'd named her Shadow. Shadow, the snowy white kitten.

It was on a particularly beautiful midsummer afternoon when Draco and his cat, Shadow, were sitting together on the veranda that overlooked the garden. The surrounding railing was made of wide, heavy gray stone, and Draco often found himself sitting upon it; legs crossed and leaning against the wall, his current literary infatuation open in his lap while Shadow purred contentedly at his feet, warm in the sunlight. The choice of the day was Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, which he was nearly halfway through. After he turned the page and came to a new chapter, he looked up, his face skewed in what seemed like a mixture of confusion and disgust.

Sensing the disturbance, Shadow opened one eye, then lifted her head and mewed curiously, to which Draco looked down and said: "Well, Raskolnikov has officially lost his mind, Shadow." He looked up towards the surrounding treetops and continued with, "Not that he had all that much to begin with, but you follow me."

Shadow simply began to purr and rolled over onto her back, apparently seeing this as an invitation for a belly rub. Draco laughed and obligingly reached over to stroke the fur between her two front legs. "You're such a lazybones," he chastised playfully, leaning down and rubbing noses with the kitten, who only began to purr more forcefully. "When I die, I want to be reborn as a housecat," he declared to no one in particular.

A door two stories below opened with a definite squeak. Simultaneously, both Draco and Shadow looked over the left edge of the railing to see the top of Lucius's blond head of hair standing just outside the back door. "Draco?" he called out to the garden.

Draco put two fingers on either corner of his mouth and whistled. "Up here, Dad!" he called, waving one hand for emphasis. His father's face turned skyward and his eyes landed on Draco a moment later.

"There you are," he said. "Come downstairs; supper's almost ready."

"Alright," replied Draco. Normally, he'd be whining to finish one more chapter, but his father had decided to interrupt at the perfect time. Not only was he finished with a chapter, he could also feel the decline in warmth as the sun began to drop behind the hill. Soon it would be too cool to read outside, so he mentally noted that he would finish after bed.

He slipped off the railing, book in hand, and walked through the double Monticello doors that led back into his bedroom -- and a fine bedroom it was. The walls were a crisp burgundy, the floor made of authentic dark mahogany. There was a large four-poster bed, curtained in matching a matching shade of crimson, as well as a large armoire, desk and bookshelf (the shelves of which were all filled to the brim). There were also several pieces of artwork hanging around the walls. He thoughtlessly set the book down on the top of the desk's hutch and reached behind him to pull the black ribbon out of his hair. It promptly fell around his face, proving to be just barely beyond chin length and of a very fine texture, like his mother's. He abandoned the ribbon as well, but waited until he heard the telltale clicks of four clawed feet on the floor before heading off down the hallway.

The rest of the house was just as ostentatious as his bedroom. He scurried down a white marble staircase, Shadow at his heels, which led to an enormous foyer with a cathedral ceiling, doors, and flying buttresses. There were accents of gold on the moldings of the walls and railings of the stairs that were undoubtedly real gold, but Draco passed through it as though he had (and probably did) a thousand times before. He hummed as he turned toward an open door opposite the front door, the unusually warm marble floor gentle on his bare feet. He breezed through the portal into a long dining room with a Gothic theme -- a long, dark oak table with many more chairs than there were people in the house (for they often found themselves entertaining many people at once), wood floor, dark walls and plenty of candles around the walls, as well as a lovely crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling, that made patterns on the now barren tabletop.

His father was sitting at the head of the table, his mother close by on the perpendicular side to his right. They both looked up as Draco entered with a cheery smile and a chirp of a "Hello!"

Narcissa smiled warmly. "Hello, dear," she said as he sat down.

"Now that we're all here," said Lucius in an introductory manner, "I propose we begin the meal." There was a silent, unanimous agreement. The man reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced what appeared to be a long stick that looked only a bit longer than a foot, with a handle at the thick end and a rounded tip at the thin. It was perhaps unusual, but neither Draco nor Narcissa seemed at all stunned. Lucius gave the wooden baton a casual flick.

All at once, with no noise or flash of light, the table was set. White porcelain plates, crystal wine glasses and silverware so clean it could be used as a mirror. Bowls were set off to the side, apparently for salad, and another, smaller plate beside it. With another swish of the stick, food seemed to appear right out of nowhere.

A full, roasted turkey sat steaming and delicious centered between them, laden with parsley and other decorative vegetables. There was a full bottle of red wine and a bowl full of garden fresh salad with tomatoes, peppers, croutons, carrots, and a choice of three dressings, all in their allotted bowls. Draco smiled brightly. "It looks delicious," he said.

Narcissa smiled. "Would you like to do the honors?" she queried, nodding towards the dark golden turkey. The smile widened on Draco's face and he produced a wooden baton of his own -- slightly shorter and of a lighter wood, but made the same way.

"I'd be delighted," he said before pointing the tip of the stick at the turkey. "Diffindo exaequo," he said in a sharp, matter-of-fact tone. Again, without any swirl of light or noise, the turkey evenly cut itself into dozens of evenly cut slices. He continued with "Distribuo unus," and three slices lifted off the turkey on their own accord, each one setting itself on one of the three plates. Narcissa smiled. Lucius sneered.

"Have you been practicing your nonverbal magic, Draco?" said his father in a critical tone as he put away the baton and picked up a fork and knife. The boy cringed -- no, he hadn't.

"Err, well," he said, "no, not really... you see, I've been caught up in my book." Narcissa glanced up as she put a cut of turkey in her mouth. Draco managed a meager smile. He had gained his bookworm tendencies from his mother, and they shared a penchant in their love of literature. "I'm nearly half-way through with Crime and Punishment."

"Oh?" said Narcissa after swallowing a bite. "And where did you leave off before you came down for dinner?" she asked.

The grin brightened. "Well," Draco began, "Raskolnikov had just finished his second murder, and he was saying how--"

"Honestly, Draco," snipped his father, cutting the explanation short, "how can you still be so enraptured by silly Muggle literature like that?" Draco looked down at his lap. "You should be spending less time in those useless books and more time in real reading material."

Draco knew what his father meant by "real reading material." Spellbooks, he thought glumly, were the only things worth reading his father's eyes. No room for fiction in this family; only real, factual, magical references books (which were, incidentally, a complete bore to read). His father was less than happy when his wife had introduced Draco to the world of "Muggle fiction," which, truthfully, was far more expansive then the contrast. And now that he was starting school soon, there would be even less time for leisure reading, replaced with boring old non-fiction.

His father said nothing more, and the former blossoming conversation now writhed pathetically on the floor, inches from death. Draco sighed gently and pulled a bit of turkey into his mouth while his mother silently sent spoonfuls of stuffing floating across the table to each of their plates. He nodded his thanks.

A moment later, there was a soft meow. Draco felt something soft run against his ankle and grinned -- he knew that warm, fuzzy something very well. Sure enough, when he looked down, there was Shadow, sitting complacently near his feet, her tail swishing and her eyes pleading for table scraps.

He was about to satiate her when his father, as if psychic, said, "Don't feed the cat."

So the meal continued in awkward silence for a quarter of an hour that felt like much, much longer, especially to Draco. When he finished his last bite of stuffing and set his silverware down, criss-crossing each other on the plate, he looked up, ready to excuse himself when his father spoke up.

"Before you go, Draco," said Lucius sullenly, "there's something your mother and I would like to discuss with you."

Draco closed his mouth and looked back at his mother, who looked equally sober. So he turned to his father again. After a moment of silence, he prompted with, "Yes?"

"This morning," said Lucius, "You-Know-Who contacted us with news."

Without meaning to, Draco swallowed visibly. Every time they mentioned You-Know-Who, it meant that something bad was about to happen. "Oh. D-did he, Father?" he questioned, trying vainly to sound at ease though his stammer showed through like sunlight through tissue paper.

"Yes," Lucius confirmed. "He gave me most interesting information... He told me that none other than Harry Potter was going to be attending your school, in your year." Draco gaped at the words that he could scarcely believe his father was saying. "Isn't that curious?"

He couldn't seem to find the will to respond until reality slapped him in the face. "Y-yes," he said quickly. "That's quite curious, indeed." He swallowed hard, hoping that he wouldn't...

"Even more curiously," he continued lazily, interlacing his fingers cryptically, "he has told me to deliver you a very special mission." Draco's stomach plummeted down into his pelvis. He chewed his lower lip out of nervous habit as he waited for the final blow, which came out as: "You are to draw him closer to You-Know-Who by way of befriending him."

Silence fell over the table; shocked, unnerving silence. For a very long while, Draco found himself unable to speak. "You... I mean, he... he wants me to befriend Harry Potter?" he said, frightened disbelief prominent in his shaking tenor voice. "As in, the Harry Potter? The 'Boy-Who--'"

"Yes," he snapped exasperatedly, "that Harry Potter, as though we could be talking about anyone else!" Narcissa recoiled nervously at the outburst. Lucius put a hand over his eyes and rested his elbow on the table. After drawing in a few long breaths, he continued with, "He wants you to get into his inner circle and gain his trust. He says that once you complete this, the next parts of his plan will arise." He lowered his hand to give his son a very blasé expression.

"But," started Draco softly, "but I'm only ten years old. I haven't even received the Dark Mark yet; why is he giving me a mission?"

In a very unnaturally calm voice, he replied, "Use your mind, Draco; I know you've got one. Who else would do the job? Vincent or Gregory, perhaps?" Draco paused to honestly think about Crabbe and Goyle doing any task more complicated than clipping their own toenails -- and they even failed at that, sometimes. If those two dunderheads were any slower, they'd be going backwards. "Think about it. You're his classmate; you have the possibility for inside information that could end all this nonsense before it even starts."

It's already started, Draco thought bitterly. It started ten years ago, and he's just been too weak to do anything about it. He glared angrily at his knees. The truth of the matter was that Draco was not at all on the side of his parents, no matter how much he said he was. He did not stand for the principals of his parents and the rest of those that followed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He found them childish, stupid, naive, and most of all, hateful. Draco had a very short tolerance for prejudice.

He hated it so much, perhaps, because he'd been raised in it. All his parents ever taught him was that Muggles and Muggle-Borns were somehow inferior to the rest of the world; like they chose to be that way! Oh, but did that logic make his blood boil. Saying that Muggles were lesser beings because they couldn't use magic was like saying that fruit didn't deserve a place on earth because it couldn't talk -- it was ludicrous. And the logic behind Muggle-Borns was even more absurd. What difference did it make, if the kid's parents were witches and wizards or not? If they could do magic, they should have the right to learn how to do it!

It took him a moment to force himself to calm down. He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw, more than determined to find away around this. Not a moment later, he looked up at his father, gaining his own look of eerie serenity.

Softly, calmly, he said: "Very well, Father."

By the end of the month, Draco was finished with Crime and Punishment. He'd put it away on his bookshelf with the hundreds of others he'd ravenously devoured to collect dust, unless he should chance upon reading it again. Truthfully, though his eyes had moved across the rest of the text, he hadn't the faintest idea of what had happened to Raskolnikov. His mind was preoccupied with other things.

For weeks he'd been turning the information over in his head. Harry Potter was going to Hogwarts -- the only one (according to the prophecies) who could destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And his father wanted Draco to "befriend" him, in hopes of drawing him to his doom.

"What a spot," he murmured.

He was lying on his bed in his black silk pajamas, Shadow curled up on his breastbone and purring loudly as Draco stroked across the soft white fur. He hadn't looked at the clock for a very long while, and he wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there, staring at the canopy silently, mind churning as he thought about absolutely nothing.

One thing was for sure: even if the prophecies about Harry Potter weren't true, he'd never be able to live with himself, knowing that he lured an innocent boy towards his death. If they were true, that was even more reason to disobey his orders. If Harry Potter were to die, it would mean one thing for sure, and that was a life had been wasted. So what he needed, essentially, was a way to make it look like he was trying to befriend Harry while making him despise him, instead.

This was going to be tricky. If he wanted to do this right the first time, he needed to know more about him.

Finally, he tore his eye away from the canopy and looked past the scarlet towards the grandfather clock against the wall. It showed half-past ten o'clock -- his parents would still be awake, he figured as he scooped a very startled and slightly miffed Shadow off his chest and set her to the side. He pushed his legs over the side of the bed, pushed on a pair of fuzzy, white, oversized slippers, and padded silently out his bedroom door.

It didn't take him very long to find his parents. They were almost always in the same spot between the time he went to bed and the time they did -- in the den, talking over wine.

He pushed the door open and peered around the edge silently. There they were, in the love seat in front of a roaring fire, each with a glass of red wine. He'd caught them halfway into what seemed to be a very deep, serious conversation.

"... jumping to hasty conclusions?" finished Narcissa softly.

Lucius sighed and leaned against the back of the love seat. "I don't know," he replied. "At this point, we can't be sure of anything. You have to realize, he's still very disoriented..."

"Well, yes, but..." She didn't go on. She stared at the bottom of her wine glass.

He decided that this was the best time to make himself known. He opened the door wider, throwing a good amount of light onto the opposite wall, which both of them automatically noticed before turning around to face him. Narcissa's face twisted, obviously ready to jump to the aid of her son on the faintest implication of any physical or emotional harm. He kept his face perfectly still and serene as he addressed them as, "Mother? Father?"

"What is it, Draco?" asked Lucius, now looking slightly concerned, himself.

He walked forward, hands at his sides. "I've been thinking about the mission that You-Know-Who gave me, and I realized..." he paused for effect, then continued, "I realized that it will be very hard to befriend him without any knowledge, on my part, of his likes, dislikes, personality, et cetera. This is assuming, of course, that we would never get along on a regular basis."

His parents looked to each other, both looking mildly startled. In unison they turned back to face Draco again. "And what exactly are you suggesting?" tested Lucius. He might not have been on the best of terms with his son, but he knew him very well. Rarely did Draco ever pose such a statement without previously knowing what he wanted to do about it, and this time was not an exception.

"I'm suggesting," he said, coming around in front of his parents between the couch and the fire, "that you file a request for a Porthole from the Ministry."

There was a moment of silence, and then Narcissa smiled widely. "Draco, that's brilliant! What a clever idea; a Porthole!"

"Narcissa," Lucius said firmly, instantly wiping the smile off her face. "We shouldn't get ahead of ourselves," he elaborated. "There are quite a few bumps and technicalities that would prevent us from getting a Porthole. Draco, you're aware of the regulations the Ministry has set up."

"I am," he concurred.

"Then how, pray tell, do you plan on dealing with them?" he asked hotly, uncrossing his legs and putting one hand on the arm of the chair. "First of all, you need a valid reason."

"And I do have a valid reason in mind," Draco said earnestly. "Granted, it would look very suspicious if I were to tell them I wanted a Porthole on Harry Potter, so I figure I could give them another name, then tweak it."

"Whose name?" asked his father darkly.

"It doesn't matter," Draco replied dismissively. "Anyone will do. Maybe just some random Muggle; I could tell them that it's for preparation of my Muggle Studies course at Hogwarts."

"You're not taking Muggle Studies," Lucius reminded him, rising to his feet and brushing off his black robes. "But if you want to follow through with this plan of yours, you're going to have to exchange one of your classes for it. We can't take the chance that there would be a loophole."

Draco hid a sneer with a cough. "I understand." He didn't mind taking Muggle Studies. In fact, he'd been dismally searching for a reason to take the course without his father causing the third World War. What bothered him was that he'd said it so resolutely, as though he controlled all aspects of his son's life without question. There were two things Draco couldn't stand. One of them was poor grammar; the other was being controlled.

"I think I know just enough about Portholes to be able to -- how did you put it? -- 'tweak' it for you," Lucius went on. "That won't be a problem. What I'm concerned about is the new blockade they put up in getting a Porthole. You're not permitted to tell--"

"--anyone about what I see in the Porthole. I know, Father; I know." He shook his head. "What can I possibly see that You-Know-Who would want to know? He'll just be wherever it is he lives, going from his day-to-day life," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. "After all, the only truly useful information I could gather would be from school, once I get to know him."

Draco had never been much of an actor; thusly his heart was beating in his ear in the hope that his father wouldn't discover that this was all a much deeper plot. Then again, it wasn't necessarily untrue. He did want the Porthole in order to become aware of Harry's personality, but not because he wanted to befriend him.

Lucius finished with a long, critical glare and said, "You have a point." In his mind, Draco let out a very long, relieved sigh, but outwardly, he did nothing but smile. "It shouldn't prove to be very difficult," his father continued softly. "Worse comes to worst, we can just bewitch the official that the Ministry sends over to build the Porthole."

The smile widened inevitably. Narcissa stood up and pulled her son into a crushing hug. "Oh, Draco, you've got your father's mind!" she said happily. "I've never been more proud of you! Putting in your heart and soul into You-Know-Who's mission..."

Draco tried to breathe but found himself coughing. Weakly, he choked out, "Mother... Mother, I'm going to need oxygen soon..."

For the first time that night, Lucius actually gave a smile and patted his son on the back. "Let him go, Narcissa. Asphyxiation wouldn't be the best way to start off on such a quest." Obligingly, Narcissa released him and contented herself to a huge smile that almost made Draco nervous.

His father told him that he would contact the Ministry first thing in the morning. His mother gave a few more swells of maternal pride before sending him back up to bed. He closed the door to the den behind him and started back up the stairs, somehow feeling that Shadow was following. He was lost in the aftermath of a private victory; basking in a glow no one else could enjoy. Closing his bedroom door, Draco Malfoy fell asleep and dreamed a pleasant dream.

"Draco? Draco, what are you still doing asleep?"

His mind slowly rose through the various levels of consciousness. First he noticed the smooth satin sheets on his cheek. Then he noticed something very bright falling across his eyes -- sunlight? He squinted and grunted, turning away from the light. A moment later, he heard a dull thud-thud-thud sound. What was that noise? Feet... yes, it was feet. Footsteps. Whose footsteps?

"Draco!"

Oh, he thought. His mother's.

"Draco, hurry and get up! The Ministry official will be here any minute -- oh, this damn cat!"

There was a highly offended meow and a sudden lack of warmth on his chest that he hadn't noticed until it was gone. He managed to pry his eyes open. "Come on, get up!"

"I'm getting, I'm getting," he said weakly, pushing himself first onto his elbows and then into a sitting position. He yawned loudly. "What time is it?"

"Quarter-past eight," replied Narcissa tightly. "Now get up and get dressed. And be quick about it, will you?" And with that, she strode out of his bedroom, leaving the door open.

He sighed. How very like his mother to blow these things completely out of proportion. With a very strong act of will, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, walking across the room towards a full-length mirror hanging on the wall. He blinked blearily and almost laughed when he saw his reflection. His hair was an utter rat's nest, his pajamas were tousled, and he still had the telltale sleep in the corner of his eyes. Yeah, this will impress the official, alright, he thought amusedly, reaching over and grabbing his wand from the vanity against the adjacent wall.

Pointing it to his hair, he said "Peniculus" in a strained voice. At once his hair flattened out against his head, tangles seeming to simply disappear. "Necto capillus," he continued. A black ribbon floated off the vanity and tied itself securely around his hair, keeping it away from his face. Then he looked down at his disheveled sleeping attire.

He walked thoughtfully across the room towards the large oak armoire and knocked twice on the left side of the door. Suddenly the armoire heaved what appeared to be a long, great sigh. Its sides curved in towards one another then pushed out into a symmetrical concave. It seemed to be alive. In a weary voice, it said, "Good morning, Draco, dear." The armoire had a cockney accent.

Draco smiled. "Good morning, Nabby," he replied.

"And what would we care to dress in today?" the armoire, Nabby, asked.

"I'm not sure," he replied. "Something nice, though. A Ministry official is coming over today, so I want to look presentable."

"Ooh," chirped the armoire. "A Ministry official, hmm? Well, let's see what I've got for you, shall we?" The sound of rustling cloth became audible through the thick wood doors. "Ooh, I know just the thing, I do!"

The doors suddenly flew up and with a gust and a flash of white, Draco was in a long, jade-colored robe that was fringed with black embroidery. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror inside the door, then nodded approvingly with a smile. "This is lovely, Nabby, thank you!"

"It's no trouble, love," she replied lovingly. The doors closed on their own will with a resounding thud. "Now you go on; go downstairs. I'll be here this evening."

"Bye, Nabby!" He grabbed his wand, slid it in his pocket, then looked over his shoulder towards the bed, where Shadow was sitting expectantly. The cat leapt off the bed when she saw him look at her and pranced off toward him, tail high. She meowed and Draco smiled, letting her pass through the door before him. "Ladies first," he said politely.

He followed his cat down the foyer steps and into the kitchen, where a very small, scruffy creature with bat-like eyes and enormous ears stood on the counter, clothed in nothing more than a pillowcase, wringing its papery hands anxiously. Sitting next to it was a large silver platter (or at least large compared to the thing next to it) with a plate full of scrambled eggs, toast, hash browns, and bacon. When the creature saw Draco, its expression changed from nervousness to joy.

"Young Master Draco!" squeaked the creature in an almost painfully high voice. "It's you! Dobby thought it was someone else. Did Master Draco sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you, Dobby," he said pleasantly, sitting down at a stool near the counter and grabbing a fork. "Yourself?"

"Dobby slept well enough," replied the creature simply. "Mistress Narcissa wishes me to tell you that you should eat quickly, because--"

"--the Ministry official. I know," he said exasperatedly. "She stormed into my room just now and started shrieking for me to get up. She looked like she'd been sucking on lemons," he recalled.

Blinking his enormous, tennis-ball eyes, Dobby replied, "Dobby did not serve lemons to Mistress Narcissa this morning," with a tilt of his disproportionately huge head to one side.

Draco paused, then sighed. His humor was wasted on house elves, he thought glumly, taking a forkful of scrambled eggs. After a few more bites, Dobby suddenly looked up, his ears perking up. For a moment Draco thought he was reacting to Shadow's entrance to the kitchen, but Dobby's eyes were locked on the door leading out into the den. Draco raised on eyebrow and said, "What is it?"

"The official," squeaked Dobby. "Dobby believes the official is about to arrive."

Draco knew to believe him -- house elves had a kind of sixth sense about these things. He nearly gagged on his bite of food but chugged down his orange juice in compensation and shoveled a bit more egg into his mouth. He swore through a large mouthful of food, eating as much as he could before...

There was suddenly a loud sound that seemed to mimic an amplified version of a sweep pushing across a floor that followed a cracking noise. A moment later, a confused "Hello? Anyone home?" echoed through the door.

He quickly snatched a napkin, wiped his face clean, and dashed for the door, hurrying into the den.

A large man with a bowler hat and moustache was ducking under the large hearth, the lower half of his body covered in soot. He was wearing a three-piece navy pinstripe suit over a white shirt, which did nothing to conceal the prominent potbelly. His hair was a wild mahogany, which only seemed to poof out farther when he removed his hat politely.

"I'm so sorry!" Draco said hurriedly, whipping out his wand. "Aeris abstergo," he said as he pointed his wand at the man's legs. With a gust of wind out of nowhere, the clothes were blown free of ash and soot.

The man laughed nervously. "My name is Edgar Wilhelm, from the Porthole Control division of the Ministry of Magic. I believe you were expecting me." Though it was a statement, there was a slight raise at the end of the sentence that seemed to turn it into a question.

"Yes," Draco replied, sliding his wand away. "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Wilhelm. My name is--"

But right at that moment, the door to the den burst open and Lucius strode in, his long black robe curling behind him. "I'm sorry," he said with an obviously false smile. Draco cringed, sure that the official would see right through it. However, upon inspecting the face that returned the false grin, it seemed that the man was just gullible enough to buy it. He smiled back and extended a hand.

"Edgar Wilhelm, Porthole Control," he said. Lucius moved around the couch and took the hand in a very loose handshake. "I assume I'm at the right house?"

"Yes," replied Lucius promptly. "My son, Draco," he said, putting both hands on his shoulders to emphasize that this was his son, Draco, "would like a Porthole to be set up."

"And for what reason?" he asked, still smiling.

"Muggle Studies," Draco responded. "I'll be taking it next year in school, and I would like one in my room so I could observe a Muggle in his day-to-day life." He mentally wondered if that sounded just a bit too practiced, but once again, the official bought it.

"Ah!" he said. "A perfectly valid reason. I assume that there aren't many Muggles in your family?"

Lucius sneered. "No," he said coldly. "We are and have been a pureblood family for generations."

To this, the man shifted nervously. "Ah, I see. Very well." There was a short, awkward pause, then, "Well, I'll certainly sign the necessary forms, and so will you." He produced his own wand, a short one of a lighter wood, and flicked it casually. A long roll of parchment appeared floating in midair. "If you would both be so kind? I'm assuming that the Young Master here is underage."

Very good, Draco thought sardonically. Lucius pulled out his wand and pointed it at the paper, giving it little more than a minute flourish. Lucius Ebenezer Malfoy wrote itself across in a neat cursive handwriting on the highest of the three dotted lines at the bottom of the contract. He put it away and nodded to Draco, who did the same.

After signing on the bottom line, Mr. Wilhelm flicked his wand a last time. The parchment rolled itself up and vanished. "Excellent. Shall we go to -- I believe you said you wanted it to be set up in your room?"

"Yes," confirmed Lucius. "Lead the way, Draco."

And he did. He left the den and moved into the foyer, ignoring the evident shock on the official's face at the sight of the grandiose room decorated in white and gold. He made his way up the staircase, turned right when he reached the hall, and made off for the last door on the left. Opening the door and letting Mr. Wilhelm and his father pass first, Draco noted that the official seemed more than a little overwhelmed at the sheer luxurious nature of the entire manor. He followed them inside the richly decorated scarlet room.

"And where would you like the portal to be set up?" he asked Draco vaguely as he drunk in the sight of his bedroom, which, Draco surmised, was probably half the size of Mr. Wilhelm's entire house.

"Right over here, on the wall over my desk," he said, waving his hand in the spot's general direction. "Makes it easier to take notes," he explained, though he needn't have. By the time he did, Mr. Wilhelm was already halfway there and tracing a broad circle over the red paint with his wand, which left a definite white, chalk-like mark.

"Very good, very good," he said when he closed the circle. "Now, then, there's only a little bit more to be done."

He closed his eyes and appeared to try and concentrate. The other two in the room gave him silence. A moment later, Mr. Wilhelm began to murmur an inarticulate phrase beneath his breath, moving his wand in a very specific manner. Without opening his eyes, he said softly, "What is the name of the Muggle you wish to see?"

Draco's heart plummeted -- he hadn't thought of that! He looked to his father desperately, who didn't seem to notice. He couldn't stay silent for too long; the official might notice something was wrong.

So he improvised: "Lawrence... Mc... O'Stephen... son... igan?"

This, however, Lucius noticed. He looked to his son and mouthed Lawrence Mc O'Stephensonigan? Draco shrunk in his spot and mouthed an apology back at him.

Mr. Wilhelm didn't notice. He simply repeated the name under his breath, and a moment later, there was a flash from the circle drawn on the wall. Incredibly, Draco saw a small, frail-looking man with bright orange hair in a kitchen, slicing bread. He was baffled. There really was a Lawrence Mc O'Stephensonigan.

The official opened his eyes. "Do you see anything?"

"Y-yes," Draco murmured, shell-shocked. "Yes, I do."

"Excellent!" He turned. "Only one more thing left to do. Draco, I've got to charm you so that you're bound to never tell anyone what you see Lawrence Mc O'Stephensonigan do." He pointed the wand at the tip of Draco's nose. "Alright?"

He mumbled numbly, still shocked at the existence of a Muggle with such an outrageous surname.

"Celo dissimulo," said Mr. Wilhelm with a practiced movement of his wand. Draco felt a slight tingle directed at his nose, but nothing more. The official seemed satisfied with that; he tucked the wand away in the inner pocket of his suit. "Well, that's it!" he said in a finalistic way.

"Good," Lucius said simply. "Allow me to show you back to the den."

"No, no, no, there's no need," breezed Mr. Wilhelm. "I can find my own way back." Draco had a sneaking suspicion that he either, A, didn't want to be caught ogling again, or, B, wanted to pilfer something. Unfortunately for him, should his motive be the latter, most of the valuables in the lower levels were charmed to shock (literally) any thieves that tried to touch it.

"Alright," Lucius said. And with that, Mr. Wilhelm left the room.

His father turned to Draco, leering over him, making him suddenly feel much shorter than he actually was. In a tight voice, he said, "Lawrence Mc O'Stephensonigan?"

Draco shrunk even more. "I'm sorry!" he protested weakly. "I was rushed! I hadn't thought of a name beforehand!"

"Obviously," he snarled back.

"B-but look! Well, actually, you can't see it, can't you? But I can really see someone -- there's actually a man with that name." He looked back at the Porthole. Lawrence was now popping the pieces of bread into a strange metal contraption with two slits on the top.

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Regardless. If that man wasn't such an idiot, we would both be in serious trouble." He locked his eyes on Draco's. "Don't slip up like that again, clear?"

His eyes lowered resentfully to the floor. "Yes, Father," he murmured.

With a heavy sigh, Lucius pulled out his wand from his robe again and pointed it at the Porthole (which, to him, appeared to be just a glowing white circle). He, too, murmured something inarticulate beneath his breath, followed with what sounded like "Harry Potter."

Draco watched as Lawrence slipped out of vision and was replaced with a small, awkward boy with untidy black hair, cooking bacon over the stove. He stopped short and watched, his face softening just slightly. This, he thought, was Harry Potter. This was the Boy-Who-Lived. Lucius turned in time to catch the look and frowned. "Draco," he said sharply.

He snapped out of the daze with a jerk. "S-sorry."

"Get to work," Lucius ordered. With that, he turned and left. Draco's gaze returned to the Porthole. A moment later, he sat down silently at the desk and rested his head on one hand, staring into the circle silently. He took in a moment to more closely examine him.

He was gangly and pale and clothed in an ensemble that was much too big for him. There was something, some look about his face that stirred a bit of sympathy in the pit of Draco's stomach. When he turned to gather a few more slices of bacon from the counter, he felt his insides squeeze. The scar -- that legendary scar was just barely peaking through the mess of black locks.

Draco knew the story of Harry Potter very well... perhaps better than most. He had been told in vivid detail when he was only seven by his father. The conversation took over an hour to complete, and by the end, Draco was mystified. Lord Voldemort -- He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the world's most powerful Dark Wizard, had entered the Potter residence and slain a fully-grown witch and wizard with one curse apiece. Then, when he had turned to Harry -- who was barely one at the time -- something had happened. Not even the Dark Lord, himself, knew... but he couldn't kill him. You-Know-Who, who had killed hundreds, perhaps thousands of people with his own wand, couldn't kill a one-year-old infant.

The night had left He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in a state so weak that it took him years to recuperate, all the while brooding over the questions to which everyone wanted answers. How could it have happened? Why did it happen? Why Harry Potter? The Death Eaters (the followers of You-Know-Who, helping him in his mission to destroy all Muggles an Muggle-Borns) broke apart for almost a decade, until very recently, when they had been summoned back together.

"Thirty-six!"

Draco's head snapped up at the voice. The Porthole was still fixed on Harry, who was now taking the frying pan of eggs and bacon over to a table that was utterly covered in presents.

The voice had come from a large, round boy with platinum hair that appeared to be colored onto his fat face who was sitting at said table. "That's two less then last year," he said indignantly.

A horse-faced woman rushed to his side. "Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven, then." The whale-like boy crossed his arms over his chest as his face changed to a devastating shade of scarlet. Draco, who didn't even know him, began to cringe out of pure instinct, as did everyone else in the room (there was also a burly man with graying hair and a moustache, who had not yet said a word).

"And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today," she said in fast compensation, almost shaking with nervousness. "How's that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?"

The enormous child paused thoughtfully. Draco mutely noticed that it seemed like an excruciating amount of work -- so did Harry, he wagered, because he had the same half-grin that crept across his own face. "So, I'll have," he started in a slow voice, "thirty... thirty..."

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said the horse-like woman lovingly.

"Oh." He slumped back in his seat and snatched a present off the table. "All right, then."

The silent man suddenly spoke up with: "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father!" Draco could not hide a look of disgust. This wasn't 'money's worth,' this was just selfishness and egotism, and he wished he could have slapped both the man and the woman for believing otherwise. "'Atta boy, Dudley!" he said, rumpling his blond hair.

There was suddenly a shrill ringing sound. Draco was the only one that jumped, thoroughly confused and more than a bit startled. The rest of them seemed calm about it. The horse woman walked out of the Porthole's vision. The words were obscured due to the distance, so Draco took to watching the blond hippo of a boy unwrap several strange objects that Draco didn't recognize. A few minutes later, after both he and Harry became distinctly bored of watching, the woman returned.

"Bad news, Vernon." So his name is Vernon, he thought. He snatched a piece of parchment and wrote that down ('Vernon = balding, gray hair, step-father?') as he listened again. "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg," she continued. "She can't take him," she said with a jerk of her head. Draco looked up in time to see that the nod was in Harry's direction.

Apparently, this was extremely grave news, because the blond child's jaw fell against his chest with a dull slapping noise. Harry looked as though this was the single luckiest thing that had ever happened -- he sat up straight and looked toward the woman.

"Now what?" she asked furiously.

"We could phone Marge," suggested Vernon. Harry cringed visibly. Draco dipped his quill again and continued to write ('Marge = bad').

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy."

('Mutual hatred.')

"What about what's-her-name, your friend -- Yvonne?" said Vernon, apprehensions visibly streaking his face.

The woman simply said, "On holiday in Majorca," with a spiteful edge.

"You could," said Harry suddenly, softly, "just leave me here." Draco stopped again and blinked softly, mentally noting that he liked the sound of his voice. He didn't notice the look on the woman's face until he heard her voice again.

"And come back and find the house in ruins?" Draco looked up. Was this a false accusation, or...?

"I won't blow the house up," Harry protested, though none of them were listening.

"I suppose we could take him to the zoo," said the woman, "and leave him in the car."

"That car's new," snapped Vernon. "He's not sitting in it alone."

Suddenly, the blond child was sobbing like a maniac. Draco could clearly see, however, that those were not at all genuine tears. He sneered, wondering how low this idiot of a child would go to get his way.

The woman rushed to his side. "Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your special day!" she said fervently.

Dinky Duddydums? he thought in abhorrent disbelief. Dear God, what have they done to this child? But more importantly, what could that me a pet name for? Douglas? Duncan? Dustin? Dudley? He paused, thinking that Dudley was probably the best bet. He wrote that down ('Dudley(<=?) = large, fat, spoiled, possibly step-brother...').

"I... don't... want him... t-t-to come!" sobbed the child whose name was possibly Dudley. "He always sp-spoils everything!" Draco (and Harry, apparently) caught a wicked grin flashed in the dark-haired boy's direction, which made Draco's knuckles turn white. Right at that moment, he would have given anything in the world to beat that child senseless with a large, blunt object.

There was another ringing sound, but not quite as shrill as the first. It had two notes to it, the first higher than the second, that faded off into nothingness.

"Oh, good Lord, they're here!" said the woman, looking frantic. Not a moment later, a small, rat-like child walked in with whom Draco assumed was his mother. Immediately, the fake tears vanished.

A quiet meow caught his attention, and Draco knew that it wasn't from the Porthole. He turned his head to one side and saw a small white kitten sitting next to his chair. He smiled and picked her up under the front arm, setting her lovingly on his desk and stroking down her head and back. Casually, he glanced back up at the Porthole, to see Harry trailing behind as Vernon, Dudley, Horse-Woman and Rat-Boy moved out the door towards one of the strangest contraptions Draco had ever seen.

It was large and made of red metal, or so it seemed. There were two doors on either side, and on either end there were oblong compartments. They all piled in -- it looked like a very tight fit. The one named Vernon got in the front right seat, fiddled for a minute, when suddenly the metal thing roared to life. Draco jumped, instinctively putting a hand over his chest. "What on earth...?"

The contraption moved backwards out of a black path that linked to a different black path that was thicker than the first. The Porthole followed as the thing rattled along smoothly.

Softly, Draco said, "It appears to be some form of transportation," to Shadow as he scratched behind her ears. "It seems very slow. Why would any self-respecting wizard--"

That's when it hit him. "Wait," he said haltingly, the hand stopping (much to Shadow's dismay), "those... those people aren't wizards, are they?" His voice was quiet. Why was Harry Potter, of all people, living with Muggles? He stared, baffled, as the red thing took a few turns, stopped a few times, making its way to the zoo, or so Draco assumed.

He looked down at Shadow, who let out an indignant mew.

"You're right," he said after a moment. "This doesn't look very exciting. I can't hear anything they're saying, anyway, over that deafening noise." He paused, and then continued. "Let's go downstairs and make chocolate milkshakes with Dobby."

And they did, which took them just under half an hour (because neither Draco, Dobby, nor Shadow could make a proper milkshake without eating the first round of ingredients). Draco returned to his room with a large cup of thick brown liquid and a small dish of milk for Shadow, who was, as always, right at his heels. He set the dish on the desk and she leapt up onto it and started to lap happily. Draco took his spoon and cheerily started at his milkshake.

Suddenly, he heard four slams, each one following the other. He glanced up over the milkshake to see the four getting out of the red metal thing. Horse-woman, rat-boy, and Dudley walked off the edge of the Porthole, leaving Vernon and Harry alone. Vernon and roughly pulled him to one side and was muttering fiercely under his breath:

"I'm warning you," he snarled, nose-to-nose with a very intimidated Harry. "I'm warning you now, boy -- any funny business, anything at all -- and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

Draco blinked. What, exactly, did he mean by "that cupboard?" He didn't have much time to mull it over, because Harry responded shortly thereafter.

"I'm not going to do anything," he said meekly, "honestly..."

The plea didn't seem to sway the purple-faced man.

He watched as Harry and the four others made their way around the Muggle version of a zoo, without the invisible walls so you could really see the animals up close (there were boring old railings, instead). They made their way around the primates, the bears, some smaller mammals. Draco noted that Harry looked even happier when he received a strange assembly of ice cream and other sweets that Dudley refused to eat because it didn't suit his exact fancy.

By the time the group arrived at the reptile house, Draco had long since finished his milkshake; all that was left was the residue of what once was one of Dobby's delicious chocolate creations. He sighed, almost sadly, not noticing as Dudley began to request the impossible of his father ("Make it move!").

He pointed his wand at the cup. "Prolotum," he said almost lazily. The glass was suddenly clean with a soft whistling noise. "Aguamenti," he continued. The now clean cup filled with fresh, crisp water. He lifted it with one hand and took a well-deserved sip as he glanced back up at the Porthole.

However, he promptly spit out the water when he heard what he did.

Hissing.

"Dear God," he murmured, "he's a Parseltongue."

Parseltongue -- the ability to talk to snakes. That was a most incredible gift - and for Harry Potter! It was not a talent normally observed in anyone other than Dark Wizards. It was especially predominant in the family line of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Now that he thought about it, the Dark Lord was the only person Draco knew of who could speak Parseltongue. But Harry Potter! How on earth...

He stared down at his desk where a smatter of water lay on the desk. He picked up the wand with one shaking hand and stammered, "P-prolotum." The water was wiped away with an invisible cloth, but he continued to stare at it. Harry Potter -- a Parseltongue. The Boy-Who-Lived had one of the most sacred dark gifts of all time.

"Let's go over what we know.

"We've discovered that Harry is a very noble, honest, and selfless person, who values his honor and dignity. He respects... though perhaps doesn't appreciate authority. Generally." Draco paused for a moment to look over his notes. "He is, for the most part, soft-spoken and non-confrontational, though, by the way he portrays himself, he wouldn't seem the type to not turn down a fight when it came to dire circumstances.

"He's also suffered some emotional abuse from those wretched people he calls family. This leads me to believe that he desperately needs emotional security, whether or not he knows or wants to admit it."

Draco sighed and folded the parchment in half. "So what we need to do," he continued with a shift in tone, "is be the exact opposite of the kind of person he would like. I need to appear cold, aloof, and heavily prejudiced -- would he even understand that prejudice? After all, he only found out about--" (Draco checked the grandfather clock) "--half an hour ago that he was a wizard. He probably doesn't even know about purebloods, half-bloods and all that."

He frowned thoughtfully. "Best do it anyway, I suppose. He'll figure it out eventually.

"Anyway. I should probably also appear to be rude and uppity, which shouldn't be very hard to believe, what, with my socioeconomic status and everything. But... damn! What if this isn't enough? What if he feels so alienated -- which is quite possible, mind -- that he had little choice but to turn to the first person that approaches him?"

He stopped short. "That's it! I'll somehow get someone else to talk to him first! Maybe a blood traitor or a Muggle-Born. ... Do I know any Muggle-Borns?" He paused. "No." He snapped his fingers suddenly. "But I do know a blood traitor! The Weasleys!

"That family is huge! They're bound to have a first year coming, right? So I'll somehow set Harry up with him or her -- can't let them see it, though -- let them mix and mingle on the train..." He stopped again, rubbing his chin with his left hand. "Then... then, I'll confront both of them at once. Say something mean, prejudiced, or a combination thereof. Get him to strongly dislike me...

"Yes, yes, that's perfect!" He threw his hands skyward in a 'eureka'-like motion. "So it will appear as though I tried to befriend him, while, in fact, I did the exact opposite! It's perfect!

"What do you think, Shadow?"

Shadow, who had been staring as Draco paced back and forth, simply tilted her head to one side and meowed.

"... Oh, what do you know? You're just a cat."