Hidden

Chapter Four

Unvanquished Linkage

Draco plodded moodily up the last green-carpeted steps of the winding staircase. Malfoys weren't supposed to be moody, of course. They were only supposed to be cold, proud, and intolerant of insult. Beautiful, too, of course.

He was already that, though.

No beauty contest at Hogwarts, nope, none at all. Smirking to himself, Draco opened the door to his room, and plopped discontentedly onto the bed, immediately becoming swathed in black blankets. Sinking into the plush four-poster bed, cushioned by plump pillows, he kicked off his knee-high dragon skin boots, and, sighing, sunk back into the bed, distressed.

Why did this always happen every time he came home?

His mother was always happy to see him, at least. As for his father...what hell he had to go through with that man! His grades in Transfiguration were always horrendous, and the only perfect grade he had was in Potions. Draco cringed, gently touching the bruise at the side of his head. If it wasn't for magic make up, he'd be walking around Hogwarts black and blue every day. He was lucky he could walk at all, what with having the damn Cruciatus Curse put on him too many times to count.

With a snarl of anger at life in general, Draco walked down the hallway to the bathroom, and leaning down to the basin, splashed his face with some water. Then he looked up, and glanced at himself in the mirror. Blue-grey eyes stared back at him, stony and cold, with so many hidden secrets lingering inside. Silver hair flashed brightly, glowing with the glossiness of over nourishment, the colour resounding, in the otherwise darkness of his surroundings. His skin contrasted eerily with the dark colours around him, along with the poisonous dark green of his cloak, and black and grey of his clothes. Draco smiled; just looking at his reflection gladdened him. Yes, he definitely had no competition at Hogwarts; he was the prettiest of them all, boy or girl!

But then his expression sobered, and anger welled up inside him. What a wretched father he had, putting curses on him, flying into rage at his slightest mistake, not even taking into consideration the positive aspects of his son. At school, surrounded by idiots and heartless Goths, taunted by that horrid goody-two-shoes Potter, the Weasel, and the Mudblood, fussed over by a mother who, of course, was a slave to his father. Damnit! Everyone in the Malfoy household was a slave to his fucking father. He hated it, hated his life, hated everything; he loathed the very man he was blood-related to.

He continued to stare at his reflection; suddenly, he hated it, too. This face that looked back at him, if he couldn't see it, if only he could forget that this face had never twisted in rage, this face of the boy who'd never rebelled against his father. He would be at peace without this accepting face. Anger burst inside him, with the violence of a volcano, and with rage at his father, at everyone, at his life, and especially at himself for having accepted it all for so many years, he plunged his hands into the mirror before him. With a loud sound, horrible as a dying shriek yet to Draco, beauteous as the tinkling of chimes, the mirror shattered. Splinters of glass flew everywhere, the sharp slivers stabbing into any possible victim.

The largest and closest victim, of course, was Draco. And even closer, in direct contact and the cause of this great burst of violent smashing, were Draco's hands. He stayed there for a moment, hands gripping the frame of the shattered mirror, his head hanging down as the battle to take control of his wild emotions raged inside him. Finally, he composed himself, and slowly drew his hands from the debris. Splintered pieces of glass fell and some still punctured his skin. Blood, a dark crimson, flowed down his pale wrists. Swearing under his breath at, not seven years of bad luck, but the destroying of his precious mirror and the pain pulsing through him, he, as gently as possible, brushed the glass splinters from his hands as best he could with both of his hands now mostly dysfunctional. He ignored the glass pieces that were fully imbedded in his hands, and glared at the mess of glass covering the floor before rushing out of the bathroom and out of his room, to practically fly down the many flights of stairs to the cellar.

Ducking beneath cobwebs and crouching behind musty treasure chests, Draco made his way, ignoring his father's furious yells at the commotion, toward the dungeon gate.

Pressing his hand against the gate, he muttered a spell, and it opened before him. He walked through it, eyes immediately accustomed to the pitch black, as if he were nocturnal; the gates closed behind him with, not a foreboding, but to him, a comforting clank. He had always loved and simultaneously hated it down here. The darkness wrapped around him, warm and thick like a soothing blanket, the sense of freedom from the outside world gracing him with joy. But the stench...it was all he could do to keep from screaming.

His sense of smell, as long as he could remember, had always been very sensitive. And when he'd first discovered the dungeons down here by stumbling upon the gates hidden behind the treasure kept in the cellar, he had been reluctant to venture inside for fear of dying from the smell. It was a putrid smell, like sweaty sneakers, or waste, or...rotten carcasses.

But knowing that, down here, there could be no demanding father, fussy mother, truly annoying fellow students, or anything at all bothersome, he was content to stay here as long as it took for him to walk off the rage and emotional turmoil swimming inside of him.

Draco slid his hands gratefully against the cooling slipperiness of the stone wall beside him, and then leaned back against it, sliding to the floor. He sat there, his knees curled up against him, for all the world looking like a lost, fallen, angel. He made sure not to actually touch anything with his skin; he would scrub his hands with soap later, his cloak could be washed, and he squatted so that only the bottom of his boots touched the floor. He sighed in relief and exhaustion, leaning his face to his knees, running his wounded, thin hands through his soft, thick, luxurious silver hair.

Suddenly, he heard a scratching sound, and looked up, to find an old man staring at him, also crouching against the opposite wall, in the exact same position as Draco; knees curled up against the skeletal frame, no skin actually touching the walls or floor. Draco stared at the man for a moment, and then regained his composure enough to carefully study him, just as the man was doing to him.

The man was obviously very old, in his seventies or eighties, little tufts of white hair above his ears, and a long, scraggly beard warming his scrawny, golf ball knees. A sharp, straight Greek-like nose stabbed forth from the old man's face, and his eyes, grey as smoke, seemed slightly sunken into his face. His lips, it seemed, throughout the years, had formed a permanent frown, and garish, yellowed teeth poked out crookedly from the corners. The man wore only a sparse smattering of tattered robes, and covered his ugly, flat little feet with only torn, rat-bitten slippers. The man seemed to have inhabited the dungeons for many years, and everything about him, from his pathetic excuse for clothes to his haggard, worn face and miserable, spiteful demeanor said so.

Draco said the first thing that popped into his head. It was very unlike him, and usually, even in situations where he didn't need to be wary of his father and watch what he said, he would be more controlled of his self and how he spoke. But, voice calm and melodious as usual, he asked, "Have you ever heard of Harry Potter?"

The old man sniffed, and gave him a strange look. And then, he laughed. It was a barking, hoarse laugh, a cross between a dog bark and a horse neigh. It sent shivers up Draco's spine. Then, eyes twinkling with humor, the man nodded, saying, "Of course I have. The Boy-Who-Lived, although not one of my few actual acquaintances, is known of to me."

Draco nodded, disgruntled by the laughter, and then, his eyes narrow with hatred, spat, "Do you admire him? Are you impressed by his achievements? If you met him, would you worship him, idolize him, approve of everything he did? Even though the best, and the only thing worthy of mentioning that he did was...living against Avada Kedavra. Would you be like this towards him; a Potter fan?"

The man smiled, resulting in the hideous sight of his yellowed teeth becoming all the more noticeable. Leaning forward, his fingers combing through his beard, he asked brightly, "Are you envious of Harry Potter?"

Draco's head snapped up, and he glared viciously at the man, and spat, "Of course I am! He gets unfairly praised and worshipped on all sides! Everyone in school loves him! And all he did was somehow, and without even doing it intentionally, survive against Voldemort's curse. He doesn't deserve all that love. He shouldn't even be among the normal, the Mudbloods, the poor rats like Weasley, the Squibs like Longbottom...and...the people who stand on the line in between, like me."

"You say this out of spite, yes? You say he should be thrown in some faraway place to learn things alone because he is the Boy-Who-Lived? Isn't that a mite hypocritical, boy? You say you hate him, yet you want to separate him from others, because he is special."

"Exactly! I despise him, I loathe him with all my heart, and I want him to get away from everyone! To not be able to be loved on all sides! To...God, I just want him to feel lonely in his life...for once! Even if it was just ONCE!"

Draco looked up after this outburst, when the old man did not speak, he unconsciously pressed on a tiny curl of hair at the nape of his neck over and over; finally, the old man spoke. "Ah, I see. So you despise Harry Potter because, due to one thing he unintentionally accomplished as an infant, he now achieves love in everyday life? And you also hate him because, due to being surrounded by people who love him, he does not know the feeling of loneliness. Is this it, this is the cause of your pain?"

Draco nodded, saying quietly, "Yes."

The old man stood up; suddenly, he seemed to tower over Draco, and his air of meanness and tiredness washed away, to be replaced by an aura of importance and knowledge. Draco, not one to be defeated, also stood. His slender body of sixteen reached a few inches higher than the much older, hunched over man. Draco didn't even flinch as the old man's gnarled, spider-like hand thumped onto his shoulder. Looking up at Draco with wise, knowledge-filled eyes, the old man said, "I know much of this world. Most I've gathered throughout the years from remaining in this dungeon. Do not tell whoever your father is of my existence; your great-great, however many greats ago of a grandfather believed me to be dead years ago. I am content to live ten more years in this dungeon if I must, as long as I finally tell this message to someone: the boy born of Narcissa Malfoy--who I am sure is now alive somewhere--is magically linked to Harry Potter. This linkage, no matter what, can never be vanquished."

Draco blinked, and said, "Explain."