Chapter 5
She was so tired…so, so tired…
St. Mungo’s was a soulless place, she decided at some time during the horrible nightlong vigil spent at her brother’s bedside. It was so…clinical, so efficient, and so impersonal in its white, spotlessly clean hallways, in its cool, competent staff, in the indefinable, intangible smell of sickness that lay underneath the astringent smell of medical potions and disinfectants.
The infirmary at Hogwarts was so much warmer, Madame Pomfrey so much more comforting, but St. Mungo’s was the main hospital of wizarding Britain, and an internationally renowned centre of healing besides. She supposed that some of that warmth and the caring touch found in the small school infirmary would have to be sacrificed in order to care for such a larger populace.
At Hogwarts, Ron would probably have Madame Pomfrey’s undivided attention, but here he was simply one among many, and not a very important patient either; his injuries were relatively minor, actually, considering the sheer hatred that had blazed in Malfoy’s eyes when he had inflicted them.
Malfoy…
How could they have known that he would go so far? Always before, he had restrained himself to insults, to taunts, and to minor hexes and curses that caused humiliating, ridiculous results (such as the hex that had lengthened Hermione’s teeth) but no real damage. But this…this had been far and beyond that schoolboy mischief. This had been real hatred, real desire to actually hurt Ron, to bring him to his knees, to punish him - there had been real hatred in his eyes, and something irrational, something close to madness.
It was unsettling…no, it was more than unsettling. It was as if the foundations of the world had shifted somehow; Malfoy had always been a predictable opponent, nasty and hateful and a real nuisance, but not a real danger, not something to be truly feared. A safe enemy, almost – a known quantity that they had always been confident they could overcome. And now he was…something wholly different.
It was as if a mask, a façade, had been stripped away, to show something completely different underneath. And what lay underneath was dangerous, frightening, and utterly alien to the world she thought she had known, thought she had understood.
Except…except for her dreams…
In her dreams, she could understand the look in Malfoy’s eyes as he had turned towards his stepfather before turning towards Harry and Ron, understand what he saw when he looked at Alexander Nott, who was obviously so much more than his mother’s latest lover. In her dreams, and in the remnants of her memories of a time she would rather forget, she could understand why he hated the dream team and their monochromatic worldview.
Sometimes she hated them herself.
But, when all was said and done, Ron was her brother and she loved him. And Malfoy had tried to kill him - or grievously injure him, which was not much better. No matter what issues he had, no matter how angry he had been, he’d had no right to take it out on Ron, who when all was said and done, didn’t have much of a head for subtleties…
Because she’d thought they’d had an understanding, Harry and Hermione and Ron and Malfoy, or perhaps the Gryffindors and the Slytherins – they’d insult and hex each other, perhaps try to do each other as much mischief as they could, but there was still an invisible line that hadn’t been crossed, shouldn’t be crossed. It was as if he no longer cared about maintaining the balance of their relationship, or to be bound by the rules they had played by for so long.
The world she’d known for so long was falling down around her ears – Voldemort had returned, the Death Eaters were truly a force to be feared once more, and what had once been a safe, predictable schoolboy rivalry had now turned horrifyingly real…
Desperate for something solid and familiar, something that was real and comforting in this world that was becoming increasingly unreal and frightening, she reached out and grasped hold of Ron’s limp hand, desperate to regain some of the feeling she had had as a child, before Hogwarts, before she had first seen the world through Slytherin eyes. Once, long ago, she had believed that Ron, her splendid elder brother, would be able to protect her from anything and everything.
Just once, even if just for a moment, she wanted to feel that again. She wanted to forget the unsettling look in Malfoy’s eyes and believe that the world was simple again – Weasleys and Gryffindors were good, Malfoy and Slytherins were bad, and there was nothing more dangerous in this world than Professor Snape’s glare and vicious sarcasm, or wondering into Knockturn Alley by mistake.
But innocence, once lost, can never be regained…
***********************************************
“That boy has turned vicious,” Molly snarled, fierce and indignant in defence of her children. “He attacked my son!”
Arthur closed his eyes wearily and massaged the bridge of his nose. He was so tired…and he was afraid. Afraid for his son, lying so still in the white hospital bed, his breath rasping painfully because his lungs had almost been crushed; afraid for his daughter, who had been exposed to too much violence in her life; afraid for his family, so vulnerable to attack now that they had become symbols, of a sort, for the Resistance, for Dumbledore’s way. And he was afraid for himself, because he could feel the undercurrents swirling, deepening, and threatening to pull him under.
Narcissa Malfoy, her cold, haughty face impassive and yet so evocative of her disdain for anyone whom she thought below her, was ignoring Molly’s accusations, coolly watching her new lover as he sneered at Dane Harcourt, who had been assigned as peacemaker in this nasty business. Probably because he was High Clan himself, but with a reputation for complete objectivity and for tolerating no nonsense from his erstwhile peers…
And yet from what he had said to Arthur before, a hint of a confidence, a whisper of a deeper, more dangerous Game, it seemed that Harcourt was still very much involved in High Clan politics - and if so, was there something more behind his appointment in this matter?
Arthur shook his head. Now he was seeing shadows and connections everywhere…
“My dear Alexander,” came a cool, amused purr. “I had thought better of you than this. Can it be that you can’t control my son?”
Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa stilled, suddenly, and Nott turned too slowly, too deliberately, to face him – two Aurors flanked their prisoner, who had been led into the room because someone had obviously thought his presence necessary. Once again, Arthur’s eyes flicked to Harcourt, whose face was blank and impassive.
“Malfoy,” snarled Nott, evidently surprised to see him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
A small flicker of a smile curled Lucius’ lips. “Draco is my son, my dear Nott. Surely you can see that this meeting requires my presence?” The small smile turned razor sharp and almost vicious. “Even in my…” he gestured at his drab prison robes, “current status, I still have rights…”
Nott’s eyes burned. There was something deeper, something older between these two than the current clash…the air hummed with tension, with an old, old animosity that he could almost taste. The Aurors shifted, straightened nervously, and Harcourt’s eyes narrowed in concentration.
“In your…” he paused, mocking Lucius’ former statement, “current status, my dear Lucius,” Nott purred softly, “you have no rights, no power, no influence at all, most certainly not over me, or my actions towards your precious son…”
Lucius half turned his head, all traces of the amused, elegant and languid aristocrat gone, and lifted his eyes slowly to meet Nott’s. This was not the melodramatic, purring villain whom Arthur had clashed with for years. This was not the polished leader who controlled the High Clan with velvet manipulation and smooth diplomacy. This was the man – and it was as much a part of him as the other guises – who had been the Dark Lord’s right hand, the ruthless killer who had fought his way to the top and stayed there by virtue of being stronger, crueller, more vicious than all the others…
Under the force – the tangible force – of that gaze, Nott took an involuntary step back, almost stumbling on his own robes; Narcissa suddenly became very, very quiet. And the air…stilled.
Arthur had known Lucius for years, but he had never, ever seen this side of him – and just like his son and his two friends, who had thought they understood Draco, understood their shared rivalry, he suddenly found that everything he had thought was true, every triumph he had treasured over the years, every small victory, was suddenly hollow, suddenly, horribly wrong…
Taking a deep, haggard breath, Nott drew himself up, drawing his dignity around him like a tattered, ragged cloak. “You can not…” he breathed, no conviction in his voice, “I no longer answer to you…”
Lucius simply stared at him with those unblinking, feral, alien eyes.
Arthur suddenly wished that he were somewhere – anywhere – else.
And then one of the Aurors stirred, coughed, and Lucius blinked, and then, just like that, from one moment to the next, became once again the amused aristocrat. “Well then,” he drawled, “but you cannot deny that, under your supervision, Draco committed a terrible act…”
Arthur frowned. Where was the man going with this? Always, before, Draco could do no wrong in his father’s eyes.
Harcourt came in, so smoothly it might have been rehearsed. “If you cannot control the boy, Nott, then I’m afraid you will not succeed in your quest for custody. We will have to give it to somebody else, someone he is familiar with and accustomed to obeying…”
“Someone,” said Molly darkly, “who will make him pay for what he did to my son!”
Narcissa, speaking for the first time, said coldly, “I will take care of my own son-” She made as if to continue, but encountered a cool, warning glance from her husband, and promptly shut her mouth.
Turning away from Narcissa, Lucius gave Molly a charming smile, despite the fact that it had no discernible affect. “Of course, Mrs Weasley. Professor Snape will know exactly what to do…”
Nott made a swift, involuntary gesture, cut it off halfway through, but still couldn’t conceal his reaction. Narcissa paled, then flushed angrily in a most interesting loss of composure, and Harcourt, impassive in his dark Auror’s robes, somehow and impartial witness and a key performer, an outsider, not part of the group, and yet still indefinably one of them in so many unseen ways, made no physical reaction, but his satisfaction was evident in the way he nodded his approval, and the almost imperceptible inclination of the head he gave Lucius before he left the room.
So.
There it was. The transfer of custody and power. Draco was in Professor Snape's hands now.
***********************************************
Professor Snape, hastily summoned from Hogwarts in the light of this newest development, was in a less than charitable frame of mind as he followed along in Harcourt’s footsteps. What had Draco done now…? Sometimes, the boy had a natural gift for finding – and making – trouble.
It wasn’t that Draco was stupid, or careless, in his actions – he was extremely intelligent, and always, always aware of the consequences of what he did. It was just that, even in his awareness of the consequences, lately he had been growing…restless, reckless, and, quite frankly, almost rebellious.
It was as if he were daring something to happen to him, as if he resented the role he had been forced to play; but now was really not the time to find out how far his father’s protection ran. Not when he had so publicly gone so far beyond the pale, at the precise moment his father relinquished his influence in the real world.
Really, Draco’s act displayed the most appalling timing that Snape had ever encountered, in all his years of playing the Game.
He couldn’t have done it deliberately, recklessly and rebelliously – had he decided to throw all the years of his training, his upbringing aside, Severus was more than sure Draco’s actions would have more…finesse…than trying, in a fit of uncontrollable rage, to strangle Ron Weasley.
No, that had been completely unplanned and unexpected. And that was the only thing that reassured him about the parental role he himself had been forced to assume, much earlier than either he or Lucius had anticipated. Because Draco was so, so good at pulling on the insufferable mask, at playing the troublemaker – if he had, indeed, been deliberately playing up…
Then everything Lucius had tried to teach the boy had been completely wasted.
Harcourt opened the door, standing aside to let Snape enter first, revealing a small meeting room, with two Aurors seated at an empty table, watching their charge with unblinking, uncaring eyes. Draco stared back at them, just as impassively. As Snape walked into the room, Draco’s head turned, much as his father did, at his most dangerous; there were no signs of relief, no signs of any kind of reaction, really, other than that subtle insolence Lucius projected at his most infuriating.
It struck him, then, how Draco could pick and choose his masks, his behaviour, and his attitude, according to the situation. How he could change from insufferable bully to High Clan Lord, to cool, pleasant aristocrat and, even rarest of all, to what Snape thought of as the true Draco Malfoy, that bright, vivid personality he had only ever seen once before, and then only for the briefest of moments…
Who was he, really? And just how did Lucius think that Snape would be able to play foster-father to this brilliant, mercurial, and certainly troubled man-child whose magic was so strong, he could feel the subliminal humming in his bones, in his teeth.
Snape couldn’t even manage his own life – how could he be a fit role model for Draco? And as for playing mentor to an adolescent, with all their issues and all their hormones…his fastidious, British soul shuddered at the very thought.
Silently, Harcourt made a circling gesture, ordering the two Aurors out of the room, and then followed them, leaving Snape and Draco alone in the room. He didn’t speak at first, but moved to the table and sat down, still holding Draco’s eyes with his own, searching for some clue as to how to proceed.
Finally, he spoke. “I do hope you thought that was justified.”
Draco’s lip curled. “It was an accident, Professor. I lost control, and you know it very well.”
Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do I? I had thought better of you than that. I thought you had been taught the dangers of losing control, of not thinking before you act…”
A quick flicker of heat, quickly hidden. “I was. But…”
“No,” he snapped. “No buts. What’s done is done, and there is no going back. So now you have to face the consequences of your loss of control, of your recklessness. And I’m sure that you’re more than aware of them.”
Indeed, Draco was. It had given his critics and his enemies – and there were many of them – further reason to dislike him and hold him in contempt and it had provided new, negative evidence for those who had, before, had no real opinion. It had cemented his already bad reputation. And, perhaps worst of all, it had given the impression that he was weak, and easily manipulated, and even, in extreme cases, unworthy of the name Malfoy.
But no, the worst thing was that now he had to make reparation to the Weasleys. And wasn’t that going to be fun.
And they were only the immediate implications. Other, less obvious, more tenuous connections, spreading out from the main, going deeper, going further…the fallout from his one and only real loss of temper would continue for quite some time, like spreading, concentric ripples after the stone disrupts the calm, flat water.
He knew this. He knew. And he resented it fiercely, resented the cold, impersonal dissection of every single thing he did, everything he said, every single reaction on his face. He hated the pressure, the expectations, the masks that he had been forced to create, the sheer…artificiality of it.
That was not him. He was not the insufferable git, or the cold, arrogant Clan Lord. He was not the smooth, charming aristocrat, or the strong, patient saviour that his father wished him to be. They were all masks, manufactured parts of his soul, made for love of his father, for the Clan, for political and social necessity. And in the sheer variety of his roles, where was his true self?
His true self had been the one who had almost strangled Ron Weasley. His true self had been the one who had rejoiced in the fierceness of true anger, of true rage, of true emotion. His true self had been what they had all disapproved of, what they had all condemned, what they called recklessness, impulsiveness, loss of control. He had not lost anything; rather he had found himself in the purity of that anger.
And they had rejected him.
That was what he had meant, with his hissed, completely and dangerously open objection. They had no right – no right to judge him that way, to analyse and to probe and to weigh private griefs that should have been his and his alone. They had no right to push him, to manipulate him, to bait him, to try and break him…
Yes, he was the Malfoy Heir. Yes, he had a position and duties. But that did not give them the right to judge him, to examine his deepest, darkest emotions with their feline, impassive eyes, to twist him with whatever they found inside. That didn’t give them the right to circle him, to try and manipulate him, to use him as they would use a pawn, to try and control him as simply another piece on the board.
He was Draco, but Draco was so vulnerable that he had to be hidden, protected, because the merest hint that he was anything less than everything he should be, and the predators would gather, circling, searching for any sign of weakness. He had played that game for so long he could not remember any other way of life. But surely it was not supposed to be that way….
Surely he had a right to be just Draco, even in private, every now and then in this life – that wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
Of course it was. Because as well as those who wanted to manipulate him, there were also those who wanted to place their belief and faith in him, those who wanted to believe that he could be everything they needed in this world, that he could be their Clan Lord and their saviour, that he could be strong enough to hold them, defend them, carry them…
And they were the worst of all.
With Lucius gone, he had to assume the duties and the responsibilities – if not the mantle – of the Lord of High Clan Malfoy. And that meant taking on everyone who depended on the Malfoy, and all of their enemies. He had to be – not just appear, be – a strong ruler to his people, a capable and invulnerable foe to his enemies, an amenable and willing disciple to the philosophies and dictates of the Light side for Dumbledore and the Ministry…
Everything that they asked, he would do. But even now, he was exhausted from living up to their expectations…
***************************************************
A/N - (coughs discreetly). That last line was lifted and paraphrased from Labyrinth. And poor Draco, feeling so sorry for himself, comes perilously close to whining. But I feel he's entitled to a little adolescent angst. It will only get worse later.
She was so tired…so, so tired…
St. Mungo’s was a soulless place, she decided at some time during the horrible nightlong vigil spent at her brother’s bedside. It was so…clinical, so efficient, and so impersonal in its white, spotlessly clean hallways, in its cool, competent staff, in the indefinable, intangible smell of sickness that lay underneath the astringent smell of medical potions and disinfectants.
The infirmary at Hogwarts was so much warmer, Madame Pomfrey so much more comforting, but St. Mungo’s was the main hospital of wizarding Britain, and an internationally renowned centre of healing besides. She supposed that some of that warmth and the caring touch found in the small school infirmary would have to be sacrificed in order to care for such a larger populace.
At Hogwarts, Ron would probably have Madame Pomfrey’s undivided attention, but here he was simply one among many, and not a very important patient either; his injuries were relatively minor, actually, considering the sheer hatred that had blazed in Malfoy’s eyes when he had inflicted them.
Malfoy…
How could they have known that he would go so far? Always before, he had restrained himself to insults, to taunts, and to minor hexes and curses that caused humiliating, ridiculous results (such as the hex that had lengthened Hermione’s teeth) but no real damage. But this…this had been far and beyond that schoolboy mischief. This had been real hatred, real desire to actually hurt Ron, to bring him to his knees, to punish him - there had been real hatred in his eyes, and something irrational, something close to madness.
It was unsettling…no, it was more than unsettling. It was as if the foundations of the world had shifted somehow; Malfoy had always been a predictable opponent, nasty and hateful and a real nuisance, but not a real danger, not something to be truly feared. A safe enemy, almost – a known quantity that they had always been confident they could overcome. And now he was…something wholly different.
It was as if a mask, a façade, had been stripped away, to show something completely different underneath. And what lay underneath was dangerous, frightening, and utterly alien to the world she thought she had known, thought she had understood.
Except…except for her dreams…
In her dreams, she could understand the look in Malfoy’s eyes as he had turned towards his stepfather before turning towards Harry and Ron, understand what he saw when he looked at Alexander Nott, who was obviously so much more than his mother’s latest lover. In her dreams, and in the remnants of her memories of a time she would rather forget, she could understand why he hated the dream team and their monochromatic worldview.
Sometimes she hated them herself.
But, when all was said and done, Ron was her brother and she loved him. And Malfoy had tried to kill him - or grievously injure him, which was not much better. No matter what issues he had, no matter how angry he had been, he’d had no right to take it out on Ron, who when all was said and done, didn’t have much of a head for subtleties…
Because she’d thought they’d had an understanding, Harry and Hermione and Ron and Malfoy, or perhaps the Gryffindors and the Slytherins – they’d insult and hex each other, perhaps try to do each other as much mischief as they could, but there was still an invisible line that hadn’t been crossed, shouldn’t be crossed. It was as if he no longer cared about maintaining the balance of their relationship, or to be bound by the rules they had played by for so long.
The world she’d known for so long was falling down around her ears – Voldemort had returned, the Death Eaters were truly a force to be feared once more, and what had once been a safe, predictable schoolboy rivalry had now turned horrifyingly real…
Desperate for something solid and familiar, something that was real and comforting in this world that was becoming increasingly unreal and frightening, she reached out and grasped hold of Ron’s limp hand, desperate to regain some of the feeling she had had as a child, before Hogwarts, before she had first seen the world through Slytherin eyes. Once, long ago, she had believed that Ron, her splendid elder brother, would be able to protect her from anything and everything.
Just once, even if just for a moment, she wanted to feel that again. She wanted to forget the unsettling look in Malfoy’s eyes and believe that the world was simple again – Weasleys and Gryffindors were good, Malfoy and Slytherins were bad, and there was nothing more dangerous in this world than Professor Snape’s glare and vicious sarcasm, or wondering into Knockturn Alley by mistake.
But innocence, once lost, can never be regained…
***********************************************
“That boy has turned vicious,” Molly snarled, fierce and indignant in defence of her children. “He attacked my son!”
Arthur closed his eyes wearily and massaged the bridge of his nose. He was so tired…and he was afraid. Afraid for his son, lying so still in the white hospital bed, his breath rasping painfully because his lungs had almost been crushed; afraid for his daughter, who had been exposed to too much violence in her life; afraid for his family, so vulnerable to attack now that they had become symbols, of a sort, for the Resistance, for Dumbledore’s way. And he was afraid for himself, because he could feel the undercurrents swirling, deepening, and threatening to pull him under.
Narcissa Malfoy, her cold, haughty face impassive and yet so evocative of her disdain for anyone whom she thought below her, was ignoring Molly’s accusations, coolly watching her new lover as he sneered at Dane Harcourt, who had been assigned as peacemaker in this nasty business. Probably because he was High Clan himself, but with a reputation for complete objectivity and for tolerating no nonsense from his erstwhile peers…
And yet from what he had said to Arthur before, a hint of a confidence, a whisper of a deeper, more dangerous Game, it seemed that Harcourt was still very much involved in High Clan politics - and if so, was there something more behind his appointment in this matter?
Arthur shook his head. Now he was seeing shadows and connections everywhere…
“My dear Alexander,” came a cool, amused purr. “I had thought better of you than this. Can it be that you can’t control my son?”
Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa stilled, suddenly, and Nott turned too slowly, too deliberately, to face him – two Aurors flanked their prisoner, who had been led into the room because someone had obviously thought his presence necessary. Once again, Arthur’s eyes flicked to Harcourt, whose face was blank and impassive.
“Malfoy,” snarled Nott, evidently surprised to see him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
A small flicker of a smile curled Lucius’ lips. “Draco is my son, my dear Nott. Surely you can see that this meeting requires my presence?” The small smile turned razor sharp and almost vicious. “Even in my…” he gestured at his drab prison robes, “current status, I still have rights…”
Nott’s eyes burned. There was something deeper, something older between these two than the current clash…the air hummed with tension, with an old, old animosity that he could almost taste. The Aurors shifted, straightened nervously, and Harcourt’s eyes narrowed in concentration.
“In your…” he paused, mocking Lucius’ former statement, “current status, my dear Lucius,” Nott purred softly, “you have no rights, no power, no influence at all, most certainly not over me, or my actions towards your precious son…”
Lucius half turned his head, all traces of the amused, elegant and languid aristocrat gone, and lifted his eyes slowly to meet Nott’s. This was not the melodramatic, purring villain whom Arthur had clashed with for years. This was not the polished leader who controlled the High Clan with velvet manipulation and smooth diplomacy. This was the man – and it was as much a part of him as the other guises – who had been the Dark Lord’s right hand, the ruthless killer who had fought his way to the top and stayed there by virtue of being stronger, crueller, more vicious than all the others…
Under the force – the tangible force – of that gaze, Nott took an involuntary step back, almost stumbling on his own robes; Narcissa suddenly became very, very quiet. And the air…stilled.
Arthur had known Lucius for years, but he had never, ever seen this side of him – and just like his son and his two friends, who had thought they understood Draco, understood their shared rivalry, he suddenly found that everything he had thought was true, every triumph he had treasured over the years, every small victory, was suddenly hollow, suddenly, horribly wrong…
Taking a deep, haggard breath, Nott drew himself up, drawing his dignity around him like a tattered, ragged cloak. “You can not…” he breathed, no conviction in his voice, “I no longer answer to you…”
Lucius simply stared at him with those unblinking, feral, alien eyes.
Arthur suddenly wished that he were somewhere – anywhere – else.
And then one of the Aurors stirred, coughed, and Lucius blinked, and then, just like that, from one moment to the next, became once again the amused aristocrat. “Well then,” he drawled, “but you cannot deny that, under your supervision, Draco committed a terrible act…”
Arthur frowned. Where was the man going with this? Always, before, Draco could do no wrong in his father’s eyes.
Harcourt came in, so smoothly it might have been rehearsed. “If you cannot control the boy, Nott, then I’m afraid you will not succeed in your quest for custody. We will have to give it to somebody else, someone he is familiar with and accustomed to obeying…”
“Someone,” said Molly darkly, “who will make him pay for what he did to my son!”
Narcissa, speaking for the first time, said coldly, “I will take care of my own son-” She made as if to continue, but encountered a cool, warning glance from her husband, and promptly shut her mouth.
Turning away from Narcissa, Lucius gave Molly a charming smile, despite the fact that it had no discernible affect. “Of course, Mrs Weasley. Professor Snape will know exactly what to do…”
Nott made a swift, involuntary gesture, cut it off halfway through, but still couldn’t conceal his reaction. Narcissa paled, then flushed angrily in a most interesting loss of composure, and Harcourt, impassive in his dark Auror’s robes, somehow and impartial witness and a key performer, an outsider, not part of the group, and yet still indefinably one of them in so many unseen ways, made no physical reaction, but his satisfaction was evident in the way he nodded his approval, and the almost imperceptible inclination of the head he gave Lucius before he left the room.
So.
There it was. The transfer of custody and power. Draco was in Professor Snape's hands now.
***********************************************
Professor Snape, hastily summoned from Hogwarts in the light of this newest development, was in a less than charitable frame of mind as he followed along in Harcourt’s footsteps. What had Draco done now…? Sometimes, the boy had a natural gift for finding – and making – trouble.
It wasn’t that Draco was stupid, or careless, in his actions – he was extremely intelligent, and always, always aware of the consequences of what he did. It was just that, even in his awareness of the consequences, lately he had been growing…restless, reckless, and, quite frankly, almost rebellious.
It was as if he were daring something to happen to him, as if he resented the role he had been forced to play; but now was really not the time to find out how far his father’s protection ran. Not when he had so publicly gone so far beyond the pale, at the precise moment his father relinquished his influence in the real world.
Really, Draco’s act displayed the most appalling timing that Snape had ever encountered, in all his years of playing the Game.
He couldn’t have done it deliberately, recklessly and rebelliously – had he decided to throw all the years of his training, his upbringing aside, Severus was more than sure Draco’s actions would have more…finesse…than trying, in a fit of uncontrollable rage, to strangle Ron Weasley.
No, that had been completely unplanned and unexpected. And that was the only thing that reassured him about the parental role he himself had been forced to assume, much earlier than either he or Lucius had anticipated. Because Draco was so, so good at pulling on the insufferable mask, at playing the troublemaker – if he had, indeed, been deliberately playing up…
Then everything Lucius had tried to teach the boy had been completely wasted.
Harcourt opened the door, standing aside to let Snape enter first, revealing a small meeting room, with two Aurors seated at an empty table, watching their charge with unblinking, uncaring eyes. Draco stared back at them, just as impassively. As Snape walked into the room, Draco’s head turned, much as his father did, at his most dangerous; there were no signs of relief, no signs of any kind of reaction, really, other than that subtle insolence Lucius projected at his most infuriating.
It struck him, then, how Draco could pick and choose his masks, his behaviour, and his attitude, according to the situation. How he could change from insufferable bully to High Clan Lord, to cool, pleasant aristocrat and, even rarest of all, to what Snape thought of as the true Draco Malfoy, that bright, vivid personality he had only ever seen once before, and then only for the briefest of moments…
Who was he, really? And just how did Lucius think that Snape would be able to play foster-father to this brilliant, mercurial, and certainly troubled man-child whose magic was so strong, he could feel the subliminal humming in his bones, in his teeth.
Snape couldn’t even manage his own life – how could he be a fit role model for Draco? And as for playing mentor to an adolescent, with all their issues and all their hormones…his fastidious, British soul shuddered at the very thought.
Silently, Harcourt made a circling gesture, ordering the two Aurors out of the room, and then followed them, leaving Snape and Draco alone in the room. He didn’t speak at first, but moved to the table and sat down, still holding Draco’s eyes with his own, searching for some clue as to how to proceed.
Finally, he spoke. “I do hope you thought that was justified.”
Draco’s lip curled. “It was an accident, Professor. I lost control, and you know it very well.”
Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do I? I had thought better of you than that. I thought you had been taught the dangers of losing control, of not thinking before you act…”
A quick flicker of heat, quickly hidden. “I was. But…”
“No,” he snapped. “No buts. What’s done is done, and there is no going back. So now you have to face the consequences of your loss of control, of your recklessness. And I’m sure that you’re more than aware of them.”
Indeed, Draco was. It had given his critics and his enemies – and there were many of them – further reason to dislike him and hold him in contempt and it had provided new, negative evidence for those who had, before, had no real opinion. It had cemented his already bad reputation. And, perhaps worst of all, it had given the impression that he was weak, and easily manipulated, and even, in extreme cases, unworthy of the name Malfoy.
But no, the worst thing was that now he had to make reparation to the Weasleys. And wasn’t that going to be fun.
And they were only the immediate implications. Other, less obvious, more tenuous connections, spreading out from the main, going deeper, going further…the fallout from his one and only real loss of temper would continue for quite some time, like spreading, concentric ripples after the stone disrupts the calm, flat water.
He knew this. He knew. And he resented it fiercely, resented the cold, impersonal dissection of every single thing he did, everything he said, every single reaction on his face. He hated the pressure, the expectations, the masks that he had been forced to create, the sheer…artificiality of it.
That was not him. He was not the insufferable git, or the cold, arrogant Clan Lord. He was not the smooth, charming aristocrat, or the strong, patient saviour that his father wished him to be. They were all masks, manufactured parts of his soul, made for love of his father, for the Clan, for political and social necessity. And in the sheer variety of his roles, where was his true self?
His true self had been the one who had almost strangled Ron Weasley. His true self had been the one who had rejoiced in the fierceness of true anger, of true rage, of true emotion. His true self had been what they had all disapproved of, what they had all condemned, what they called recklessness, impulsiveness, loss of control. He had not lost anything; rather he had found himself in the purity of that anger.
And they had rejected him.
That was what he had meant, with his hissed, completely and dangerously open objection. They had no right – no right to judge him that way, to analyse and to probe and to weigh private griefs that should have been his and his alone. They had no right to push him, to manipulate him, to bait him, to try and break him…
Yes, he was the Malfoy Heir. Yes, he had a position and duties. But that did not give them the right to judge him, to examine his deepest, darkest emotions with their feline, impassive eyes, to twist him with whatever they found inside. That didn’t give them the right to circle him, to try and manipulate him, to use him as they would use a pawn, to try and control him as simply another piece on the board.
He was Draco, but Draco was so vulnerable that he had to be hidden, protected, because the merest hint that he was anything less than everything he should be, and the predators would gather, circling, searching for any sign of weakness. He had played that game for so long he could not remember any other way of life. But surely it was not supposed to be that way….
Surely he had a right to be just Draco, even in private, every now and then in this life – that wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
Of course it was. Because as well as those who wanted to manipulate him, there were also those who wanted to place their belief and faith in him, those who wanted to believe that he could be everything they needed in this world, that he could be their Clan Lord and their saviour, that he could be strong enough to hold them, defend them, carry them…
And they were the worst of all.
With Lucius gone, he had to assume the duties and the responsibilities – if not the mantle – of the Lord of High Clan Malfoy. And that meant taking on everyone who depended on the Malfoy, and all of their enemies. He had to be – not just appear, be – a strong ruler to his people, a capable and invulnerable foe to his enemies, an amenable and willing disciple to the philosophies and dictates of the Light side for Dumbledore and the Ministry…
Everything that they asked, he would do. But even now, he was exhausted from living up to their expectations…
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A/N - (coughs discreetly). That last line was lifted and paraphrased from Labyrinth. And poor Draco, feeling so sorry for himself, comes perilously close to whining. But I feel he's entitled to a little adolescent angst. It will only get worse later.
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