Wishing Upon a Bloody Star

Chapter One: Draco's Detour

AUTHOR NOTES:

Yes. This is my favourite bit to write.

Ok, first of all, huge thanks to my beta theEighthWeasley and the wonderful folks at PI. Love you all, beautiful grammar goodness.

Also, shout out thing to my good friend Rachel Po the Man, because she helped get this fic rolling. I am one of the laziest people you'll ever meet and if it wasn't for her, this fic would have only remained half-planned.

Last but not least, I feel as if I should explain the 'R' rating. This chapter is not really an 'R' chapter. The 'R' is for future chapters (oh, look at me, I'm planning ahead) because of the amount of violence I plan to put in it. My vision for this piece is: slash and blood. So yeah, there. That was my pitiful attempt to ward you away, if you do not like slash and bloody fics.

Also, this is the second edition of this chapter. I've made some modifications for grammatical purposes (changed it from third to second person). It was originally in second person, then I changed it to third to clear up any confusion. However, third person did not work out for me (yes, it wouldn't work out between us, quite sad indeed). Anyway, now that it's back to second person... chapter two will now flow quite easily.

Cheers! Thank you for reading this, and don't forget to leave a comment at the end. I'd love it if you could tell me what you think of it. Also, if you want me to notify you for any chapter updates, I'd be happy to do so. Just tell me in a review (oh look, a subtle hint) and I won't forget you. Haha, happy reading!

-------------- Chapter One: Draco's Detour

Somewhere, over land and over sea, in a grey fortress surrounded by grey Dementors, a man named Lucius Malfoy dies. His heart stops beating, his breathing slows down and it is sad because he has died without ever truly being alive.

While all of this occurs, you are sitting on a hard chair, trying to look as if you're having the time of your short and uneventful life. Nobody needs to know how much the silver tinsels and the choir's deck the halls with Christmas holly, fa la la la... is annoying you.

You just sit there, bored out of your mind, stirring the remainder of Christmas pudding without much gusto.

It is a mystery though. You're sixteen, prefect, and captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team!!!!! You are the boy who has it all: looks, money, brains, popularity, adoring first-year fans, and most importantly, a future. After all, you're so fortunate; you even takes it all for granted.

There is much raucous yelling - a disturbance at the Gryffindor table. Of course Harry Potter is in the middle of it. He's grinning, as somebody hands him his Fortune Biscuit. He cracks his Fortune Biscuit open, and reads the message, and the smile disappears off him like water off a duck's back.

Curious and feeling a sudden surge of love for Professor Trelawney that certainly wasn't there before - you crack open your own biscuit.

Your life will change after you've read this.

Huh. What's that supposed to mean? You turn to Blaise. "Blaise, what'd you get?"

Blaise laughs. "Your shameful secret goes public, but you'll not be shamed." He shrugs and pops the biscuit into his mouth. "What utter rot."

"Exactly," you mutter spitefully. "Everybody knows Trelawney's a fraud. Only an idiot would believe all the crap she says," you say, secretly wondering whether your life will change for the better or for worse.

Staring balefully at your biscuit, you decide that you'll forget about it for the time being; and so you eat it, blissfully unaware that in the next twenty-four hours, your life is about to change in ways that you have never even dreamed of.

*

You drag your carcass to the Slytherin table for something to eat. Like all mornings, you're so ravenous, you could swallow a Hufflepuff first-year snake-style.

"Pass the milk," you say to Blaise, who complies as usual, jerking his head from the Hufflepuff table.

You smirk. Really, Blaise's crush on blond Hufflepuff player Zacharias Smith is just too cute, to not make fun of. It will certainly never happen to you, thank Merlin.

"I saw Zacharias shower once, after Quidditch Practice. He's really toned. I think he works out," you murmur, dreamily, like a woman planning her marriage and three children with a man who she has only dated once.

Blaise spits out the milk he has just consumed, all over Pansy Parkinson. Pansy looks irritated, as not only is she not a morning person, she also dislikes having pre-digested food over her sparklingly clean robes.

"Honestly, Blaise," she says crossly. "Swallow, don't spit."

Blaise colours slightly, but he maintains his sneer. "Tell Draco, he's the one who swings that way, being the fucking queer he is."

Despite the ridiculous insult, you just smile knowingly and you do know things, because you found Blaise's stash of dirty magazines under his bed yesterday.

You return to the mundane task of buttering your grey, stale piece of toast. Picking up a limp piece of sausage, you survey it before deeming it edible. "Ketchup," you demand in an authoritarian manner, and somebody with a blank face, wordlessly passes it.

"That's disgusting, Draco." Pansy scrunches up her little pug nose. "Gross." She watches you smother your sausage, so that it looks like it's bleeding and dying, her expression a mixture of both fascination and disgust. "You're not going to eat that, are you?"

"Watch me." You tuck the sides of bread around the sausage and just when you're putting it in your mouth, you makes eye contact with Potter, of all people.

Potter glares at you, and you glare back instinctively. Then you bite coolly into your sausage, more viciously than necessary - and ketchup drips all over your lap. To your distinct embarrassment, Potter notices this little 'accident' and doubles up with laughter, elbows digging into the Gryffindor table gracelessly.

"Oh, shut up," you say irritably to Blaise, who's sniggering rather unpleasantly.

"Draco," says Pansy suddenly, startling you, "you've just got an owl."

The owl is one of those Ministry owls, a dumb animal trained to deliver missives to unappreciative people. It will deliver letters for the remainder of its lonely life. It doesn't seem to mind though, cocking its head back and looking almost intelligent as you pry the envelope from its outstretched claw.

Dear Mr Malfoy,

you read;We regret to inform you that your father, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, has passed away on Sunday, 25 December. If you have any enquiries regarding the matter, our office is always open.

Our condolences,

Christian McGregor.

It takes several re-reading before it starts to register in your mind. "Oh," you mutter, weakly.

Pansy snatches for the letter, away from you, and you let her take it because what else can you do?

"I am sorry for your loss, Draco." News has traveled all the way to Professor Snape, who is standing right behind you and now claps a heavy hand on your shoulder. "If you'd like to talk..."

"No," you say quickly, trying hard not to sink in stunned stupor. "Uhm, I'm sure. I'm all right. Perfectly all right. Peachy. I mean, uhm, as peachy as you can get when you hear that one of your fathers is dead - I mean, one of your parents - I don't have two fathers yet- not that I ever will - I mean...."

You don't often babble. In fact, Draco Malfoy is rather known for his coherent little speeches. So Professor Snape doesn't look too convinced, but he lets it slide. "All right. Talking may help though."

You nod forcefully, a smile plastered on your face, though it feels plastic and kind of strange.

"Hey Draco, are you... are you all right?" Blaise asks hesitantly, as if Draco Malfoy is now some delicate little doll.

"Merlin, Blaise, I'm so sick of people asking me that!" you snap, and you leave the table, because it's the logical thing to do, when one wants to storm off in a rage.

*

Harry was having a miserable day. Last night, Ron had said something which had mortally offended Hermione, and as a result, neither of them were talking - not to each other, nor in general.

That had been happening a lot lately, he thought, sighing irritably. Harry hated this ongoing feud. Why couldn't they just realise that they were: madly, passionately, devotedly and hopefully in love with each other, kiss and make up? They were making life more complicated than it really was.

He watched Malfoy stride into the Great Hall, looking as if he owned it, as Harry buttered his toast distractedly. Malfoy took his customary place at the table next to Zabini and Parkinson. He looked as if he had some evil plan up his sleeve, and Harry's eyes narrowed. Knowing Malfoy, there were probably several such evil plans, all of which involved being Voldemort and Dark Marks. Call him crazy, but Harry had this notion that Malfoy was destined to become a Death Eater, sharing the same fate as Lucius Malfoy.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed that Malfoy was glaring at him. It was a very fierce and angry sort of glare - the kind of glare that didn't lose its power after what? Six years? Malfoy glared long and hard; his grey eyes had the 'don't-fuck-with-me' attitude down to pat.

Good, Harry thought. Now I can glare back. He turned on his Harry Potter Glare of Death, the one that he often practised in the mirror whenever he was bored. Quiver in your boots, Malfoy.

"What's wrong, Harry?" asked Ginny, sitting across from him. "You look like you've got something in your eye."

Harry didn't bother answering back.

He didn't have to though, for right at that moment, Malfoy bit vindictively at his bread and sausage, and ketchup squirted all over his sparklingly clean robes. Draco squirmed in embarrassment as several expletives left his mouth.

The look on Draco's face was priceless, enough to reduce Harry to tears. Harry almost choked on his laughter, giggling helplessly. Everybody at his table stared, bemused, wondering what on earth was happening.

"He's bloody mad," said Ron to Hermione, feud forgotten in the face of the danger of Harry becoming a psychopath.

"Well, at least he's laughing," Hermione said nervously. "That's always a good thing."

"Not when it's for no reason," replied Ron darkly.

Then Harry stopped laughing because Malfoy's robes were clean again, and Snape had arrived, and Malfoy was reading a letter that he held with trembling hands.

He watched Malfoy's face drain of what little colour it had already. Malfoy's face was tiny because he was so far away, but Harry was concentrating hard enough to make out the curve of every feature perfectly. Harry's curiosity increased tenfold as he watched Malfoy storm away.

"Blimey, what'd you think happened?" he asked Ron, conspiringly. Ron just gave him a puzzled look, mouth full of food.

"What happened?" Hermione asked, hesitantly, almost as if she was afraid to ask.

Harry rolled his eyes. "You know, with Malfoy?"

He saw Ron and Hermione exchange looks with each other.

"Harry," Hermione began, "Harry, have you ever though about the possibility that maybe Malfoy is just a bullying git, and nothing more."

"What she means," Ron interrupted, "is that you think about Malfoy too much."

Harry shrugged. They so did not understand. Hating Malfoy just gave him something to do. God, it wasn't as if he was obsessed.

*

You have been staring at the same two words for the last ten minutes. Ten minutes may not be a long time, but to you, it might as well have been ten hours. Relativity is a bitch.

Dear Mother.

You have intense writer's block. Obviously, you really have no idea what else to write. You wonder how your mother feels about all of this. You wouldn't really peg her under the 'emotional' category, but this is your father - an exception.

Father. How'd he die? Was it anything to do with He-Who-Really-Shouldn't-Be-Named?

He used to smile at you. Not the Dark Lord, as if. Lucius.

Lucius. You can't think of him clearly in his mind, can't picture his features. Whenever you think of him, colours gold and red pop up in your head. Gryffindor colours, but nevertheless, your father wears them well.

Your father is, no, was red and gold, because he was angry, and cold, and calm, and proud. He was somebody important, somebody who had the type of presence which demanded utmost attention if you know what was good for you. Now he's ... gone.

And you feel... nothing? Just nothing. Only a queasy sort of feeling in the pit of your stomach, like you've lost something, but can't remember what. You want to hurl, but there's nothing to hurl.

The stone walls open and close, and in walk Vincent and Greg in sync. They areyou're your friends, being more like sidekicks (that is, stupid sidekicks) or better yet, minions. Sometimes, you find it hard to envision them as human, but today they are comforting.

"To class, Draco?" grunts Vincent, and you appreciate that he's just as bright as he looks. Vincent has no inner layers, and for that you're glad.

"Yeah," you sigh resignedly. "Can't have you two go to class without me. You'll get beaten up by Potter, or something."

As usual, they never challenge your statements, even when they're bordering on ridiculous.

*

Professor Snape has decided that your less-than-fervent state is worrying, so he has decided to hold meetings with you, while he plays at living his childhood dream of being a counselor. In these meetings, you are expected to pour all the emotions you ever felt out while Snape tries to piece them together.

You shudder at the thought. You are dreading this so badly, it hurts.

A knock. The brush of your knuckles against the heavy timbers of the wood. Ever since the news of your father's death, you have been in a state of heightened awareness, noticing every single thing that happens to you.

"Come in."

Reluctantly, you enter the office. The festering organs of dead animals lie in jars of green, immiscible liquid, candy for the eyes to feast upon. It's fascinating in a morbid way, but it really does nothing to help your troubled state of mind.

"Draco, how are you?" asks Snape quickly.

"I'm good," you say tonelessly, the words slipping out. "Erm, sir, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I'm really quite all right. I'm grieving in my own, er, restrained manner."

"I know that," Snape says smoothly. "But it's my duty as your Head of House to see how you are coping, though your mechanisms of coping are certainly better than a Hufflepuff's."

You agree as you smugly compare hysterical Hannah Abbott to your own cool, calm and collected persona. People could like, learn so much from you.

There is a long awkward silence.

"Draco, there's something else I have to ask you."You look up, alarmed. How does Snape know? "They haven't contacted me, Professor."

They being the Death Eaters. Because it's tradition. The son takes the father's place. That, or he will be killed as a traitor. The contract of a Death Eater is eternal allegiance to the Dark Lord, an allegiance that will be carried out by the son and his son, and his son, and son on until their family line passes, and their bones dissolve to dust.

"They will, soon." Snape looks strained. "I must ask you, Draco. Do you, do you have any desire to join them?"

You shrug. You have thought about this a lot, and you want to keep your options open. You would draw a list of 'advantages' versus 'disadvantages' except doing this would make everything seem... real.

Being a Death Eater wouldn't be so bad. You'd be secure, you wouldn't have to change your world. And you never liked Mudbloods that much anyway. Mudbloods were responsible for this war, as in if they never existed, there wouldn't be a war first place.

"You must make a decision quickly!" Snape snaps. "Draco, I know that you're upset," he continues, ignoring the squawks of protest. "I'm sorry for your loss, but you must make a decision. And as your Head of House as well as one of your mother's dearest friends, I must help you. I serve your best interests, Draco."

You do not know whether to trust him, having been born with the gift of 'suspicion of friends'. Snape looks earnest enough but you know that he is one of Lord Voldemort's most faithful servants. You know this because Father always told you to listen to Professor Snape. Father thought the world of Snape.

"I don't know." You choose your words carefully. "The Dark Lord's cause sounds favourable. And my father might have wanted me to choose that particular path."

Snape nods, his eyes glinting determinedly. "I understand, Draco, and soon I must pressure you to make a definite decision. But first I want to teach you something that will prove useful to you."

You stare blankly at him. "Do you mean, like extra Potions lessons, or something, sir?"

"No, this has nothing to do with Potions," Snape says quickly, stepping away from his desk and walking towards one of his cupboards where he fumbles for something you cannot see. He puts something in his mouth. Your neck almost hurts from you craning it too far. "This will be more useful. Draco, do you understand what Occlumency is?"

You think. Of course he has heard of the term, but to know what it is exactly.... "It is something to do with the mind," you says, suddenly remembering. "Father wanted to teach me it one day. It is to hide your thoughts from something."

"That's right," Snape says briskly. "Occlumency is the defensive counter to Legilimency. Legilimency is the ability to extract emotions and memories from another person's mind."

"So it's like" - Your mind tries to grasp this difficult concept -- "mind-reading?"

"No, Draco, you must see the difference!" says Snape sternly. "The human mind is very complex: it contains the areas of memories, which is tied to the areas of emotions and perceptions which affects what your thoughts of action. No mind can be fully read. In Legilimency, the Legilimens can detect how you're feeling - we can say that your emotions are probably radiating out of your eyes. They can also delve further into that emotion, traveling through thoughts and memories which link to that emotion.

"That is why the Dark Lord can always spot treachery in his followers. He can detect feelings like fear easily, and using those, can read your memories to see why you fear him."

You gape, a tiny element of outrage in that gape. "But there's a counter-measure to that!" you say weakly. Already, visions of yourself being struck by fatal green bolts of lightning are dancing around in your head. Curse your imagination.

"Yes, there is." Snape's expression softens. "Occlumency, Draco, I'll teach you to block your thoughts. Now, I will not be lenient with you, Draco. Your father could never master it and I don't expect you to, though I will try my best."

You gape again, this time with indignation. Professor Snape has never been so harsh with you. He has always had good things to say about you. Have you angered him somewhat?

"There you go again, Malfoy!" Professor Snape snaps. "I can read you like an open book. You're an open book just begging me to read all of your thoughts. Empty your mind, Malfoy! It's just as easy as it sounds! How do you expect to have a future if you can't even divest all your emotions."

He is starting to push your buttons, but you persist, determined to impress him. Professor Snape always had a huge amount of influence with you. You remember being eleven years old and worshipping the ground he walked upon.

Professor Snape may have been your favourite professor, and you, his favourite student, but the truth is that you almost fear him. Snape has some invisible hold over you, like your father did. Your sole aim is to please the professor. You want to make a good impression on him, the kind of impression that lasts when Professor Snape's seventy and he'll be telling snot-nosed Gryffindor brats: "I had a pupil once whose name was Draco Malfoy. You will never be as brilliant as him. So dream on, you miserable little brats."

"That's good, Draco," Professor Snape says softly. "Yes, I can almost not sense what you're feeling. Look into my eyes."

You stare into his black eyes, trying hard to locate the pupils, trying hard not to let your eyes water, to reveal any weakness.

"I shall tell you when to meet me again," Snape says wearily. "You're dismissed, Draco."

As you walk towards the door, you cannot help but look back at Professor Snape. He is sitting, hunched over his table with his head in his arms.

And it is just a passing thought, but you realise for the first (but not only) time that Professor Snape is getting old.

*

Theodore Nott watched Draco Malfoy fly, whipping through the air in a blur of green, his blond hair glinting in the sun. Theodore liked watching Draco fly.

Actually, Theodore liked watching Draco in general.

It wasn't as if he had a crush on the other Slytherin. God, no -- he wasn't gay, nor was he in denial. Nor was he straight. He liked to think of himself as somebody with no feelings for anybody. Remote. Asexual. Confused.

Theodore had always been an unobtrusive kind of person. If he ever had a desire to draw a timeline of his life, it would have been a small notch at the beginning, signifying his rather unimportant birth, and a faint mark at where the line ended (representing his death). It wasn't that bad being unnoticed, but one did kind of yearn for just a little bit of attention.

Just a little bit.

He had often entertained the notion of what it would like to be Draco Malfoy. It was a tiny never-spoken fantasy: he would take Polyjuice Potion and be Draco Malfoy for an hour. He would live Draco's life, learn his secrets and shine for an hour. Then he'd be back to Theodore Nott, quiet and content. Draco Malfoy was one of the most hated personages at Hogwarts and Theodore wondered what it was like.

He didn't mind being hated. If somebody hated you, it meant that they respected you, resented you and thought about you in their spare time.

Theodore didn't mind if he was respected, resented and thought about in somebody else's spare time. The only problem was that he wasn't. He wondered how Draco Malfoy did it.

Draco landed, his feet kicking back feathery snow, ending Theodore's train of thought. His eyes were clear and sharp, and Theodore could see, even from so far away, that the other boy was happy, in his own way. He wasn't smiling or anything but there was a faint pink flush, and Theodore thought that a cheerful Draco wasn't really a bad look.

Then Draco saw him and sneered. He made his way towards Theodore.

"What are you doing here?" he asked sharply.

Theodore shrugged. "I was just walking."

"Oh yeah?" said Draco sarcastically, with a bullying tone. "People who aren't on the Quidditch team are not allowed to be on the Quidditch pitch."

Theodore blinked. "That's the dumbest rule I've ever heard. Anyway, I saw you practise," he said honestly, a strange thing because Theodore was a Slytherin and a Slytherin was never really honest.

"And?" Draco's face was unreadable, like he was thinking of something.

"Quidditch looks kind of fun," said Theodore, shrugging again.

Draco gave a hollow sort of laugh. "Yeah, it is. You should try out for the House team."

Theodore said nothing. He was waiting for Draco to finish speaking.

"But then I've seen you play," continued Draco. "You fly like shit." With that and a strange smile to his lips, he excused himself, broom over his shoulder.

Theodore watched him leave, hair shining like it was some kind of halo; and he thought about Draco. Draco was so hateful and a bastard to boot, so why couldn't Theodore bring himself to hate him?

Hate, what a novel concept. Theodore wasn't even sure he knew what it meant.

*

You peer up at the jars of animals, frozen in death and time. Raising your eyebrows, you turns your head when Snape enters.

Snape walks with a slight limp. Instinctively, you crane your neck and search for blood. No sign.

All the damage is internal.

"Is there anything the matter, sir?" you ask, politely.

Snape doesn't answer. Instead he fixes you with a steely gaze and says instead, "We'll be working on Occlumency again, Mr Malfoy. I want to see all your memories."

The problem is, you don't. Some things are best kept hidden.