White Shadow (Pureblood, Book I)

"Draco!" chirped the light soprano. "Draco, it's time to go!"

His attention was drawn, and Shadow succeeding in yanking the string out from between her master's finger, then wrestling it into submission. Go? Draco thought. Go where? He stood up and pulled the door open. "Where are we going?" he called out the door.

"Diagon Alley," she replied from wherever she was. "We're going to get your school things."

"Diagon Alley?" he repeated. He turned to look at the calendar hanging on his wall then returned it out the doorway. "But school doesn't start for over a month!"

"Better early than never," replied his mother's voice with the slightest hint of irritation. "Besides, we have other business to attend to down in that neck of the woods anyway, so we might as well kill two birds with one stone."

He sighed, grabbed his light black cloak and snatched Shadow off the desk. She let out a surprised and slightly aggravated mew as he put her in the cloak's hood, which is where she often rode on day trips such as these. After sliding his wand into his inner pocket, he made his way out the bedroom door and down the hallway. He called out, "What other business do we have there?" as he turned onto the stairs and hurried down into the foyer.

Draco could now hear more clearly that his mother's voice was coming from the den. "Well," she said, "your cousin, Marie-Claude, also needs a wand for her first year at Beauxbatons, so I'll have to stop off at Ollivander's for her." He entered the den, fastening the silver clasp on his cloak. "She's on holiday in Italy, you see, and won't be back until the day before school starts."

"Alright," Draco said vaguely as he watched his mother open what appeared to be the Ming dynasty version of a sugar bowl, taking a fine powder into one of her long, frail hands. Daintily, she threw the powder into the fire, which suddenly turned green.

"We'll be meeting your father there, too," she said as she ducked then stood upright. "And we of course have to make a few other visits as long as we're in the area."

"Visits?" echoed her son, suddenly wary. "What do you mean, visits--?"

"Diagon Alley!" she said in a clear voice. Draco frowned. She was avoiding his questions, which meant that wherever they were going after Diagon Alley, he wouldn't enjoy it at all. The fire roared up around her feet and she vanished.

With a sigh, he took a handful of his own powder and tossed it lackadaisically into the fire. He, himself, moved beneath the hearth and into the green flames. "Diagon Alley," he said lazily before the flames rushed up around him.

He was sent spinning ferociously through black nothingness. Each time the sensation was nauseating, but each time he got over it the moment it stopped. He opened his eyes, finding himself in a much larger hearth made of bricks. It was large enough, in fact, that he didn't have to stoop down to exit, and when he did, he pulled out his wand and did a quick charm to remove the soot. Upon looking up, he saw his mother pulling her gaze away from what appeared to be a large barrel of glittering white stones ("Genuine Opal -- 5 Sickles per Pound"). She smiled.

"Ready to go?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," he murmured, brushing the last bit of soot off of his shoulder. "Where are we going first?" he asked as he followed his mother out the front door of the shop.

"I thought we might as well go the apothecary before anything else," she replied as she set off into the busy, loud, and very narrow street between two rows of stores. "I checked the list your school sent, and we're lacking a few things here and there."

This surprised Draco, though only mildly. His house had an entire room in the cellar that was dedicated to nothing but potion-making. In its darker crevices, one could find very esoteric (and sometimes illegal) ingredients stacked on shelves or stored in boxes. There was rarely a magical ingredient that Draco couldn't find in that room. How obscure could the list of supplies be for a first-year Hogwarts student?

"Really?" he finally said, hurrying to keep up as his mother wound around a particularly large woman in a ridiculous red robe. "We don't have something?"

He didn't need to see his mother to know that she was rolling her eyes. "The common ingredients run out first, Draco," she said obviously. "And all the items are, I assure you, quite common." With that, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a parchment thrice folded over itself. As she smoothed it out, Draco could make out the Hogwarts seal and emerald ink. "See," she said, half over her shoulder, "nothing special. Roots, fungi, some algae..."

They turned into a run-down shop that smelled just as awful as Draco had remembered. Instinctively, he squeezed his nose shut and fanned the air vainly. Narcissa didn't notice. She made her way across the rotting wood floor (obviously held up by magic, otherwise there was no way it could have supported more than a bookshelf) and up to a painfully thin witch all in an ugly burnt orange color. As she handed the list to the employee and she went off to fetch the required items, Draco took to looking about, his eyes grazing over glittering black bead-like things, what appeared to be a wide assortment of internal animal organs, and several toads turned in-side-out and hanging by one leg from the ceiling.

His mother and he made his way around Diagon Alley for about an hour, collecting the things that they didn't already have at home. Finally, she stopped near the edge of a building and looked over the abused parchment once more. "All that's left is to get you your robes," she said without looking up. It was either her maternal instinct or her peripheral vision, but she somehow knew that her son was at her side. "I can send you off to Madame Malkin's while I go look for your cousin's wand."

"Where's Dad?" he asked as he watched a large floral hat bob its way across the sea of heads.

"In Flourish and Blotts, I imagine," she said as she folded the paper up again. "He said he'd get your schoolbooks for you; said he had to get something else there, too."

Draco nodded and shifted the rather heavy bag of school supplies from one arm to the other, as the former had grown weary.

"Off you get," she said, giving him a shooing motion. "Go to Madame Malkin's. I shouldn't be very long at Ollivander's."

Draco wound his way through the crowd towards the large building in which fancy robes were displayed in the shop window. The door jingled merrily as he entered and set the bags down by the entrance on the floor. "Madame Malkin?" he called out to a fairly abandoned shop.

Upon hearing her name, a small, pudgy witch all in mauve waddled out from a door behind the counter. She smiled warmly. "Hello, there, Mr. Malfoy!"

He smiled back. "Hi, Madame Malkin," he said pleasantly. "Doing well?"

"Very well," she replied as she toddled over towards him. "Are you getting your robes for school fitted, then?" Draco nodded. "Hogwarts, I assume?" He nodded again. "Very good. Come on, let's get you started, shall we?"

She escorted him towards the back of the shop and stood him up on a stool. "There you are, dear," she said as she reached from behind to get to the clasp of his cloak. "Now, let's just get this off you, shall--" A very loud meow cut off her sentence and she stumbled backwards, catching herself on a windowpane. "Oh, gracious me!" she said, putting a hand against her large bosom. "What on earth was that?"

Draco looked over one shoulder. "Oh, I'm sorry, Madame Malkin!" he said apologetically, reaching his opposite hand to collect the startled white kitten. "It's just Shadow, my cat... don't worry, she's not mean." But he took the cloak off, anyway, so she wouldn't have to worry about any more animals popping out of the folds of his clothes.

Madame Malkin summoned over a different witch -- younger, prettier, obviously a trainee -- to attend to him. She laughed when she found out that a kitten came with the robe. "She's very cute!" she said, holding the cloak over one arm and using her free hand to stroke down the back of a very pleased-looking Shadow. "What's her name?"

"Shadow," he said with a smile. "She's a Tokenize," he elaborated, "a little over a year old."

The trainee smiled in return, then set the cloak over a nearby chair, upon the seat of which sat Shadow, who was almost invisible on the white cushion. Then the witch went over to a long rack of black robes, turned, sized him up, then picked one out towards the center. "This should fit," she said as she walked back over and threw it over his head. "Ah, yes," said the witch with a nod. "Very good fit. Not too tight anywhere?"

"No," he said.

"Alright, then. Let me just fix up the hem a little bit." She sunk onto the floor, grabbed a nearby pincushion and started to fold up the end of the robe.

Right at that moment, the door jingled again, and Draco casually looked up. To his shock, he saw none other than Harry Potter standing in the doorway!

He stopped and swallowed hard. His mind began to race:

All right, don't panic, he told himself. Whatever you do, don't panic. You can do this. Just remember the person that he would hate. God knows you're not an actor, Draco, but...

He watched nervously as Harry had a brief conversation with Madame Malkin and was shown over, much to his horror, towards the stool adjacent him. Don't panic. Don't panic. Whatever you do, don't panic. Just become that character...

"... another young man being fitted up just now, in fact," finished the pudgy witch, just within earshot. Harry simply nodded and allowed a matching robe to be thrown over his head.

Draco was mentally squirming when he said, "Hello. Hogwarts, too?"

Harry looked up at him, and Draco noticed for the first time a pair of startlingly green eyes behind those thick, broken glasses of his. "Yes," he replied.

Focus! "My father's next door buying my books and my mother's up the street looking at wands," he said, sure that he was at least somewhat stumbling across his own speech. "Then," he said slowly, wondering what his character would do afterwards, "I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms." He paused, suddenly feeling very in character. "I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully Father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow," he added for effect.

Draco was pleased with the look of vainly hidden disgust on Harry's face. "Have you got your own broom?" he asked, making it sound like a sort of social requirement.

"No," Harry simply said, turning his gaze away.

"Play Quidditch at all?" he pried.

"No," he said, a little slower.

"I do -- Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?" Now Draco was feeling much more confident about this character that he was playing.

"No," Harry said a third time, now looking a bit more awkward.

"Well," Draco replied, "no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been -- imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" His character liked to speak in long jumbles of run-on sentences.

Harry grunted, "Mmm," as Draco looked out the window behind him. Through the glass he saw the gamekeeper at Hogwarts -- what was his name? -- holding two ice cream cones in one enormous hand and waving in ridiculous enthusiasm. He'd seen Harry's encounter with him by way of the Porthole, but he'd been a bit caught up in the rest of the goings-on to remember his name.

What he did remember, however, was that Harry was very fond of him.

"I say, look at that man!" Draco said, nudging his head toward the man.

Harry glanced over his shoulder and smiled, waving back at Hagrid. "That's Hagrid," he said cheerfully. "He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said Draco, forcing a look of disgust on his face, though he inwardly liked the large, pleasantly clumsy look about him. "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper," replied Harry darkly. Draco could tell simply by his air that with every passing word, his tolerance for Draco was dropping. In a way it pleased him; in another, it saddened him.

"Yes, exactly," Draco said with a nod. "I've heard he's sort of savage -- lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed." Of course, Draco had no idea if this accusation was true, but Hagrid did certainly seem the type to do such a thing.

"I think he's brilliant," Harry said, now sounding cold.

"Do you?" Draco said. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?" Draco felt like kicking himself for asking a question. He knew where Harry's parents were... his character, however, did not.

"They're dead," he said simply.

"Oh, sorry," he said casually. This might be a good time to play in the prejudice, he thought numbly. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

Harry cocked on eyebrow. "They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you?" he asked, though he didn't give time for Harry to respond. "They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine." He surprised himself with that last sentence. "I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?" he asked.

The young trainee stood up at the beginning of the question, and by the end of it, Madame Malkin was pulling the robe over his head. "That's you done, my dear," she said.

Draco was glad Harry didn't respond. He wanted to keep as much ambiguity between them as was possible. He grabbed his robe off the chair and stealthily tucked Shadow out of sight near the crook of his elbow. "Well," he said, "I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose."

And with that, he was ushered towards the front of the shop, where his mother was already paying for the robes. Not a moment later, they left the shop, Narcissa saying, "She said she'll send us the set in a few weeks," when they walked out the chiming door.

"Alright," he said, finding it somewhat difficult to slip out of character. He made a mental note to practice it more often, in front of a mirror, or Shadow. "Did you find Marie-Claude's wand?"

"Mhm," replied his mother, holding up a bag out of which stuck an oblong box. "And your father is waiting for us in Flourish and Blotts," which explained why she was walking away from the hearth that had taken them there.

The bookshop was quite a way down the street, and as he trailed behind Narcissa, he found himself mulling over the brief conversation he'd had with the Boy-Who-Lived. The first question that arose to his mind was whether or not he should tell his parents. Quickly, he decided against it. It wouldn't be a very bright idea if he was intent on keeping the wizarding world out of the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Then his mind floated over what they'd said.

Harry hadn't said very much, save the information about Hagrid. But Draco had obviously made a horrible first impression, which, he thought, made the whole concept of purposely failing at befriending him much easier.

He would undoubtedly ask Hagrid of the explanation to his prejudice; or at least Draco hoped he would, if he hadn't already. The sooner he could shove more reason to hate him into Harry's psyche, the easier the job would become. He stared down at the cobblestone road with a sigh, suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of depression at the idea of hiding himself from who could be (according to You-Know-Who, anyway) the savior of the magical world.

A breeze of cool air and the telltale scent of old books suddenly assaulted him. He looked about the familiar shop and smiled nostalgically. Many times in his youth, Narcissa had taken him here and allowed him to simply wander, perhaps buy a book or two that struck his fancy. Taking in a deep breath and closing his eyes, he let himself momentarily slip down Memory Lane, until it was cut short by a sharp:

"You're done shopping, then?"

He opened his eyes. His father was walking over to him with a large stack of books being carried by a very small house elf who apparently worked in the shop. Draco could see the poor creature's knees wobbling threateningly.

"Yes," Narcissa said brightly, leaning over for a brief kiss from her husband.

"Umm, sir," squeaked the house elf, but Lucius didn't notice.

"Sorry I took so long," apologized his father. "I was haggling over the price of one of the books I wanted to buy. Sticky business, it is."

"Sir?" said the house elf a little louder.

Draco frowned sympathetically and pulled his wand out of his inner pocket. "Vinxitunc vectum," he said with a swish. What appeared to be a slightly translucent red ribbon swirled out of nothingness, bound itself about the stack of books, and then became suspended in midair. Draco moved the tip of his wand in the direction of his father's wrist, where the longer end of ribbon tied about it securely. Lucius hardly noticed, but the house elf looked very grateful.

"Thank you," squeaked the creature.

Draco smiled. "You're welcome." When the house elf scurried away and Draco returned his attention to his parents, he found them to be still talking, Narcissa in mid-sentence.

"... right as I came into the shop," she finished.

To this, his father simply nodded. "Alright. Well, then, shall we just take the store's fireplace to your father's, Narcissa?"

"What?" said Draco suddenly. "We're visiting Grandpapa?" Narcissa looked over at him and frowned lightly.

"I didn't want to tell you," she admitted. "Every time I do, you seem to become so withdrawn and bored."

What Draco wanted to say was: For good reason! Your father is completely senile! Every time I go over there, he either forgets my name, accuses me of perpetrating a crime that happened thirty years before I was born, or both!

What Draco said was: "Do we have to?" in a slightly whiny voice.

"Yes, we have to," chastised Lucius as he walked through one of the many rows of bookshelves that lead to the fireplace, situated around which were a few old chairs. "Your grandfather has been very sick lately. We should all spend more time with him before..." He gave Narcissa a somewhat apprehensive glance. "You know."

Narcissa didn't appear fazed, or if she was, she hid it very well. Scooping one hand into the complimentary pot of powder on the mantel and throwing it in, he said, "We won't stay for very long, though. We're expecting company for dinner tonight."

Draco had heard this statement so often that it no longer surprised him. In fact, most of the time, he didn't even recognize it until dinnertime actually came around. They often played host to many important people in and out of the Ministry of Magic, and they were almost always humbled by the amount of hospitality they received, false though it was.

Lucius stepped into the greenish flames. "Lestrange Chateau," he said clearly before vanishing a whirl of light. Narcissa followed him, and Draco came last.

He was pulled into the same nauseating spinning sensation for a few long moments and stumbled slightly when it stopped. He gripped the edge of the hearth for support and murmured, "I hate Floo Powder." He, for the second time that day, charmed his robe free of ash.

When he looked up, he saw the room he was expecting. It was quite large, full of overstuffed blue furniture and the heads of many a magical creature mounted on the walls. The wood was solid, polished oak, and the light source was a large picture window, framed by a set of heavy curtains. He walked forward to join his parents, and, hearing an indignant meow from his hood, looked over his shoulder.

"Oh, honestly, Draco," said Narcissa harshly. "Do you have to bring that bloody cat with you everywhere you go?"

"Hello!" Lucius called once. "Anyone home? Mortimer?"

As if he'd been standing there the entire time, a tall, leering figure with dark hair appeared right beside Lucius. "Bonjour," it said in a deep, lazy voice. His father jumped, and Draco couldn't help but smirk. Very rarely was he ever startled by anything, which made the infrequent occasions even more laughable.

"Bonjour, Mortimer!" said Narcissa excitedly, hurrying in front of Lucius to exchange bisous with the man. "Comment vas-tu?" she asked between air kisses.

"Very well," Mortimer said in French. And, unofficially, the conversation shifted languages. This happened every time they visited his mother's family. She was bilingual, after all, and had raised her son in such a likeness. "And how are you, Narcissa, my pet?"

"Excellent! We just got back from Diagon Alley," she said. "Draco will be heading off for his first year of school in a little under a month," she pointed out, just a bit of pride in her voice.

With that, Mortimer turned to Draco with a wiry smile. "Is that so? And how is my little dragon?" Draco grinned and dashed up towards him, hugging the tall man about the middle. Being with Mortimer always made him feel younger than he was. He heard Mortimer laugh and return the hug, patting him on the back a few times. "Well, I trust?"

"H'lo, Mort'mer," he mumbled into the black fabric of his robes.

"Let me get a good look at you," he said, pulling back and placing a long, pale hand under Draco's chin. He gingerly turned the head from side to side. "By God, how you've changed. How dare you let your son grow, Narcissa," he accused playfully.

"Oh, trust me," she smiled, "if I had it my way, he'd stay six years old forever."

"So you must be going on eleven now," Mortimer judged.

"Where is the head of the household?" Lucius asked sharply. Mortimer turned to him, looking mildly offended.

"In bed," he replied. "He hasn't been feeling well lately, as I'm sure you're aware."

Lucius locked eyes with Mortimer, scanning them critically. "No, he hasn't," he said in a very soft, skeptical voice, as though he was suspecting foul play. Appropriately, Narcissa chimed in.

"Oh, Lucius," she scolded, "you're not still on about all that rubbish, are you?"

"I'm merely saying--"

"I know what you're saying, Lucius. You're saying you don't trust Mortimer!" She walked forward and put one hand on Mortimer's shoulder, who glanced down at it, then up at Lucius again. "I know he and my father aren't best of chums, but I think after almost seventy years of loyal servitude, that he wouldn't now, of all times, try and -- of what was it you accused him? Poisoning?"

Lucius sneered and didn't say another word on the subject. "I'll go check on your father, Narcissa," he said in a consciously calm voice. With that, he turned and vanished out of the room.

It was true that Mortimer had served Draco's grandfather for seventy years, and there was a reason Mortimer didn't look anywhere near seventy years old (he looked in his early thirties, in fact). Mortimer was a vampire. Seventy years ago, Draco's grandfather had saved Mortimer from a slayer, and because of the Vampire's Code (a sort of set of rules by which all vampires were magically forced to abide), he had to be his servant until his death. Though Mortimer strongly disliked his grandfather -- all of them knew that he'd abused the privilege on more than one occasion -- he seemed to take very well to Narcissa, whom he raised almost by himself. He'd also taken to her sister, Draco's aunt, Bella, as well as Draco when he came around.

Draco had a lot of things that he found very difficult to discuss with his parents. The more delicate subjects that his parents quietly evaded -- things like sex, suicide, disease, and the more dark international politics in the world. However, he found that he could always easily speak about them with Mortimer. He'd become a mix of a father figure, a big brother, and a best friend. They often stayed in close contact via owl post.

When Lucius left, Mortimer said softly, "Not that I won't be a bit relieved when your father does pass away. Don't take the wrong way," he continued quickly.

Narcissa waved one hand dismissively. "You know I won't," she said. "As long as you keep in touch, it won't matter to me how you feel about his death." To this, Mortimer smiled and rumpled Draco's blond hair lovingly.

"How could I not keep in touch when I know that this little monster will still be around?" he said. Draco laughed, adoring the way he felt again like a carefree child. Only Mortimer could do that to him. He sighed then, resting the side of his face against Mortimer's chest, realizing that at some point, he would have to go upstairs and interact with his barking grandfather. He felt his stomach sink at the very thought of sitting through yet another yarn that doubled back, jumped about, loop-dee-looped, barrel rolled, then proved to be completely pointless in the end.

"What's the matter, Draco?" asked Mortimer, hearing the sigh.

"Oh, just the feeling of impending doom."

Mortimer smirked. "I'll try to pull you out if it gets too long," he said, flashing him a grin, having the uncanny ability to know what Draco was thinking each time, every time.

"I love you," he whimpered.

"I know," he responded.

"And another time," wheezed Grandpapa Lestrange, "when I was fifteen years old, my friend, Laurie, told me that she'd been hunting werewolves in Vector Forest..."

Draco's stream of consciousness went something like this: Killmekillmekillmekillmekillme...

"I told her that werewolves were the hunters and not the hunted, but she didn't listen to me. She never did..."

KillmekillmekillmekillmepleaseGodkillme...

Grandpapa was lying on a plain twin bed, propped upright against a pillow that separated his back from the headboard. He was still in pajamas, even at noon, and seemed completely intent on driving his grandson insane with a completely irrelevant story.

"Just like Dumbledore, she was."

His stream of consciousness suddenly went quiet. "Dumbledore?" he said before he could stop himself. "Albus Dumbledore?" The only man You-Know-Who ever feared?

But Grandpapa apparently only spoke to hear the sound of his own voice. He went right on with the nonsensical story, ploughing forward blindly. "Like that one time, when I was teaching beneath him, I remember him with a package... something red... and a flask...

"He said, I remember he said, 'Send that to Gringott's; it'll be safe there.' Of course, it doesn't seem quite as safe now... heh-heh-heh..." He let out a few wheezing laughs, followed by ferocious whooping coughs that made Draco cringe. "Or it won't be," he squeaked through his since slaughtered voice.

Draco hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about; and at this point, it didn't matter. He had gone back to thinking about the joys of suicide when the door suddenly opened and a dark-haired, pale-faced someone popped his head through the door. He shot upright in his seat, eyes showing an unspeakable amount of gratitude.

Mortimer said, "Sorry to interrupt, Master Lestrange, but Draco needs to go home now. His father has just told me that he's expecting company over for dinner, and he should probably be there to greet them."

He bolted out of his seat. "Sorry, Grandpapa!" he said hastily as he jogged towards the door. "I will see you at Christmas, I think." He closed the door.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," said Mortimer with pleasant sarcasm, "but you seemed just a bit on the eager side."

"Just a bit," Draco sighed, falling back against the door. "My God, that man does nothing but talk, and talk, and talk..." he drifted off, putting his palms over his eyes. "Are my ears bleeding? If they're not, they probably should be."

Mortimer laughed. "No, no bleeding as far as I can tell; and I'd notice first, wouldn't I?"

He only had the strength for a very weak, very slight grin. "Seriously, though... do I need to leave?"

"Actually, yes," said Mortimer. "Your father really did send me to fetch you."

"Then I guess that means I should leave." He turned to Mortimer and gave him a death-grip of a hug around the shoulders. "Keep in touch," he murmured in the general direction of the vampire's ear.

"I will," he promised. "I swear you'll get an owl from me at the very latest on the first day of school, alright?" He broke the hug and smiled down at him fondly.

"Alright, but don't think I won't hold you to your word. I'll send Shadow after you if I don't get one." He motioned to his hood where a small white ball of fur sat curled up in the hood of his thin cloak, purring faintly.

"And we all know that Shadow is a worthy opponent to a five-hundred-year-old vampire," he said with a grin. "That feral beast has mandibles of death that will surely tear my reanimated flesh to pieces."

"Oh, surely," Draco replied, grinning as well.

Mortimer chuckled. "You'll get an owl," he confirmed, hugging him again. "Now get going. You don't want to be tardy to greet your guests."