Author’s Note: This chapter title is a phrase from Puddle of Mudd’s song Blurry.
CHAPTER 4 – Everything’s So Blurry
The next morning, Draco awoke well before sunrise. He’d had a lousy night’s sleep; he was so wound up about his impending meeting with Ginny Weasley that he had not rested very well. The possibility of ending his futile search brought him more joy than anything had since finishing his O.W.L.s last year. And of course, he felt a great deal of satisfaction that someone else would do the work, while he would reap the benefits. What more could a Malfoy ask for?
Knowing that he would be sending Ginny an owl this morning, he was filled with anticipation. He eventually gave up on getting back to sleep. He got out of bed and slipped into his forest green robe. With his brain reeling from lack of sleep, he headed toward the showers. He knew he couldn’t rest until he had written and sent his little note. Maybe he could get a bit more shut-eye before breakfast, once his early morning task was complete. He absolutely could not miss breakfast, however; he wanted to see Ginny’s reaction when she received the owl and to nonverbally confirm their appointment. He refused to be stood up.
After he had dressed and made himself presentable, he wrote a few lines detailing when and where they would meet. He tucked the note inside his immaculately pressed robes and climbed up the stairs to the Common Room. On entering the room, he thought he heard people talking, but the only other person in the room was Michael Grant. He was just staring into the fire, which blazed quite nicely for having been burned to embers late last night. Draco wondered if maybe Michael had nodded off to sleep. “Grant?” he ventured.
Michael quickly turned around, wide awake. Draco had not really expected a reply, and he was somewhat taken aback. The younger boy said, “Morning, Malfoy. What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”
Draco shrugged one shoulder and said, “Couldn’t sleep. I need to send an owl this morning, so I thought I’d get it out of the way.”
“Writing home to your mum?”
“Yes, she misses me,” Draco lied. Yeah, right. Misses her revolving charge accounts is more like it. “And what are you doing up so early?”
"Me? Oh, just checking in with my parents. With a 13-hour time difference, I can’t very well floo them after classes get out, now can I?” he asked good-naturedly.
“No, I suppose not,” he agreed. “See you later, Grant.”
Draco turned to head out the door to go to the owlery when Michael called abruptly, “Malfoy, I’ve been hoping to have a word with you. Have you got a moment?”
He hesitated for a second or two, but then he said resolutely, “Sorry, I really don’t. Mother needs to get this before noon, so I’ve got to send it now. Could we visit when I get back, or perhaps at breakfast?”
“How about I walk to the owlery with you?” Michael suggested. “I’ve been meaning to go there, anyway. I’ve got this letter to send to my little sister -- she misses me terribly -- and I still tend to get a bit lost around here on my own. Maybe you could show me the most direct route?”
Seeing no way out of this, short of being brusquely rude, Draco acquiesced to Michael going with him. After all, he was a Slytherin prefect, and turning down a plea for assistance one’s own housemate’s would make him look very bad indeed.
As they walked, the younger boy remarked, “I can’t tell you what a thrill it is for me to finally be at Hogwarts.”
“Oh? What school did you attend prior?” Draco asked, not really caring, but attempting to make polite small talk.
“Well, I was home-schooled by my mum until I was 13. She’s a teacher by training, so she taught me the basics. Then I attended Winslett Academy for the Magically Gifted in Wellington for two years, but I just had to get out. It’s an all right school, mind you, but to be perfectly frank, they have too few teachers who are pureblood wizards and far too many muggle-borns enrolled.”
“I know what you mean,” Draco commented. “We’ve got that problem here as well. Suppose it’s everywhere, except maybe at Durmstrang.”
“Would you believe the girl who portrayed the Goddess at last year’s Samhain Festival was a filthy mudblood swine?” Michael spat in disgust. “Not just a halfblood, mind you -- neither of her parents were magical. Now don’t get me wrong, she was very pretty, but where is the pride in one’s heritage? Why even have such festivals, if you’re going to have key roles portrayed by those who have no true sense of what they’re about?”
“Shameful,” Draco threw in, just for conversation.
Michael went on. “Anyhow, my parents thought it was best that I move on. Winslett is the only magical school in New Zealand, and Australia’s academy is even worse, which forced us to look elsewhere.” After a moment’s silence, Michael summarized in a very satisfied tone of voice, “So, here I am.”
“And why would you want to come here, specifically? In what way could Hogwarts possibly be ‘thrilling’?” Draco inquired. “Our headmaster is enamored with mudbloods, halfbloods, and even muggles. He thinks that we should cooperate,” he said as if he were about to vomit.
“Well, partly because of my grandfather. Besides, he went to school here, you know. He was Head Boy, in his day,” Michael said matter-of-factly.
“Who?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “Your grandfather?”
“Oh, no, certainly not,” Michael laughed. Then he whispered slowly, emphasizing each word: “Him. You-Know-Who.”
When Draco caught his meaning, he said, “But that was ages ago -- anyone who instructed him would surely be long gone --”
“Yes, but his legacy lives on here. It’s alive in these very walls,” Michael said quietly, as if the walls could hear him. Draco thought he looked a bit mad.
Michael stopped walking. He turned to face Draco, took hold of his arm, and said in a hushed but very resolute voice, “He’s going to make our world The World. Not hidden in secrecy, but proud of what we are. We’re better than muggles, and they need to know that. We’ll be in charge of things, instead of those hapless muggles.” He paused for a moment. “And I intend to help him with all of my being,” he added with a solemn nod.
Draco wondered at Michael’s grim determination and eyed him thoughtfully. The sharp look of determination on the younger man’s face caused Draco to feel surprise, admiration, and a bit of envy, all at the same time. His own devotion to the Dark Lord was not quite this intense. In fact, if he had this much enthusiasm, Lucius would have beamed with pride.
When they had reached their destination, Draco found himself in a rather uncomfortable predicament. True, he did have a note inside his robes, but it certainly wasn’t to his mother. If Michael were to recognize the owl he chose now and saw it delivering a message at the Gryffindor table, he might get suspicious. He would know that he had lied, and that could raise a number of awkward questions Draco would have no intention of answering.
He was in a bit of a tight spot until Michael unwittingly solved his dilemma for him. All signs of insanity gone, he laughed, “Oh, bugger, I am such a moron. I grabbed the wrong note.” He looked around the hall then said, “You know, I think I can manage to find the way back on my own. Thanks loads; this way is much better.” Draco wondered vaguely, How else would you get here?
They parted ways, Michael returning to the dungeons and Draco proceeding to send his note. When he returned to the Slytherin Common Room, Michael was nowhere to be seen. Probably went back to bed, Draco guessed. It’s far too early to be up. His own mission complete, he went down to his own room for a bit of a lie-in. He slept like a baby.
At the Great Hall, the owls came right on schedule. Draco saw his land directly in front of Ginny Weasley. She removed the parchment with some trepidation. Trying not to draw attention to herself, she discretely gave the owl a tidbit off her plate then held the note under the table to read it. It said:
Tonight at 7:30. Be at the lake on the side closest to the Quidditch pitch. Wear a cloak with a hood. Don’t be seen, and DON’T BE LATE.
She glanced across the room to find him. Her eyes met his, and she gave a very brief nod in his direction. When she saw him acknowledge her by slightly raising one eyebrow, she immediately looked away. It’s settled then. Good, he thought.
Draco tuned into on the conversation that was going on around him. It was the usual fare, each of them bragging about what he or she was doing to further The Cause. Most of his friends were working to recruit converts to their side, while making life difficult for those who refused. They hoped to prove their loyalty by eventually purging Hogwarts of its mudblood population. Blaise was in the midst of a heated argument with Millicent Bulstrode when Pansy Parkinson chimed in. “Well, at least one of us is actually doing something,” she commented haughtily.
Blaise asked Pansy, “Oh, yeah? Exactly what are you doing? Enticing people by offering to sleep with them, like our Millicent here?” Draco could see in Millicent’s face that the accusation had stung. Although she was appalled by his remark, the group laughed loudly at Blaise, so he continued digging. “Got any takers, ladies? Didn’t think so. Not even a mudblood would want a piece of that.”
“You coldhearted bastard!” Millicent cried, as the tears threatened to spill over her lashes.
Pansy turned to her and cooed gently, “Everyone knows that, dear.” Then she looked Blaise directly in the eye and said, “That’s why he had to go to America to find a girlfriend. No one here would have the vile maggot.”
Blaise gave her a look of utter disgust, which Pansy returned unflinchingly. “No, I’ve joined the Advanced Herbology class,” she announced, taking a bite of a banger and looking very self-satisfied.
He almost spit out his pumpkin juice then asked her incredulously, “Whatever for?!”
“Sabotage, my dear,” Pansy said sweetly and chuckling softly. “It was Michael Grant’s idea, really. He thought that at least one of us ought to join so we are kept informed.”
Draco joined in, his voice laced with sarcasm, “If none of us knew, then who exactly are you keeping informed, dear?”
“Never you mind, love.” She said the last word in an acerbic tone. “It’s in very good hands, I assure you.” They glowered at one another. He couldn’t abide her, ever since they had gone to the Yule Ball together in their fourth year. When they’d gone down to his room later that night, she was most uncooperative, and he resented her for denying him what he thought was his due. Not that he desired her today; on the contrary, he found her somewhat repulsive by his usual standards, but her rejection had hurt him.
And she would have been my first, too! I thought girls liked having that honor. I heard she finally gave over to Marcus Flint. Ah, well, it was her loss, Draco reminisced. He watched his housemates interact. Blaise and Pansy seemed to have stopped bickering for the moment. She pointed a finger at him and commanded sternly, “Now you apologize to Millicent.” Blaise turned to Millicent and asked if she could please forgive him for his rudeness. See, Slytherins do care about each other, in our own . . . unique way.
Draco tried to remain focused on the day’s lessons to keep his mind off of his impending meeting with the little Weaslette. It was Wednesday, which meant Defense Against the Dark Arts with Lupin first thing in the morning (groan), followed by Herbology (double groan). He had Advanced Potions for most of the afternoon, then Quidditch practice after his lessons. This would be a very long day indeed.
Defense Against the Dark Arts and Herbology were still dry and tedious for him, no matter how allegedly advanced the material became. Advanced Potions was both challenging and rewarding, as was Transfiguration. Thankfully, for sixth and seventh years, Care of Magical Creatures was an optional elective, and he opted to get the hell out of it.
As always, Potions was his favorite class, and he put in extra time and care to keep his skills sharp. The only drawback was that the mudblood Granger was an advanced student as well. However, this did give him someone to harass whenever he felt the need. Of course, neither Weasley nor Potter had qualified for Advanced Potions. Shock, shock -- I guess Potter must still be in remedial potions? The thought of it just slayed him, and he broke into a malicious grin at the memory.
Draco seemed to have a gift for brewing potions. Maybe it was because of his meticulous nature, or his keen powers of observation, or perhaps his innate desire to prove that he was the best. He wasn’t sure exactly why he felt he had to convince others, but he certainly had become adept at making potions.
During his fifth year, it seemed that Draco’s hard work was finally paying off. His Potions marks had surpassed Granger’s. For the past two terms, he had been named the top Potions student in his year. He deserved it, as he certainly worked harder than she did. He felt great satisfaction when Professor Snape’s congratulatory letter arrived, and he recalled the day with clarity.
*****
The Hogwarts owl arrived two days before Christmas. “Finally!” Draco said. Professor Snape had already congratulated him personally two weeks ago, but his father didn’t know yet. In order to surprise him, Draco had asked his teacher to address the envelope to him rather than to Lucius.
Since returning home from school, he had been waiting anxiously for this very owl to arrive. Draco longed to show his father this letter as undeniable proof that he was the best. It held the key to an early Christmas present, one that was worth much more than anything he would receive the day after tomorrow. Surely, this would earn him the reward he craved more than anything else: his father’s admiration.
Breathless, he found Father in his study and handed him the letter. Draco’s heart was in his throat, thumping with expectancy.
Lucius took the parchment from him. After he had perused it lazily, he flipped it over, inhaled and exhaled slowly, and then said an offhand manner, “Hmm, I see. It seems as though you have finally done better at something than that worthless mudblood. Tell me, did she leave the school, or is she already in Advanced Potions? ”
Draco bit his tongue to keep from gasping aloud. The words stung like Cruciatus. How could his own father treat him so callously?
Lucius then intensified his wounds by remarking uncaringly, “Well, I see you have finally managed to achieve something worthy of your name, son. About damn time, too.”
A high compliment, indeed.
Sadly, the boy realized that this was the extent of the praise he would receive from his father. He had hoped for more. Foolish, really. Draco winced, hoping his father wouldn’t notice the weak spot he had just trampled upon.
But he did. He always did.
“You are my curse in this life, boy,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve been a disappointment to me since you were six years old and you fell off your first broomstick. Just had to fly too high and show off, didn’t you?”
“I said I was sorry, Father,” Draco pleaded in a quiet voice. “It was an accident.”
“As for me, I think that fall must have jarred something lose in that thick head of yours. Then that stupid bint just had to go and mend your arm and your ribs. I told her that a little overnight suffering would be a good lesson for you, but she couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
Draco didn’t respond. He looked down at his finely-cut robes and his shiny black shoes. What did such trifles matter if he couldn’t even get a kind word from the man he admired so fervently?
He soon felt the redness of embarrassment and impotence rising in his cheeks. At this point, anything he could say would only bring him more scorn. Lucius asked him haughtily, “Do you think I intend to see all these years of hard work and private tutelage go to waste? When are you ever going to earn the name of Malfoy?”
“I’m sorry, Father. I’ll do better,” Draco replied softly.
Thick tears welled in the boy’s eyes. He fought valiantly to keep them from falling, but they betrayed him when Lucius concluded their little father-son chat by saying to him coldly, “I doubt it. Now go on, I have work to do.”
*****
Draco’s mother had been no better. Narcissa cared even less than Lucius did, if that were possible. All in all, it turned out to be his worst Christmas ever, and the bitter recollections still pained him. He planned to stay at school during this year’s winter hols, what with his mother rarely at home and an unfeeling bitch when she was. What would be the point?
He had hoped this helplessness and frustration would ease with time, but it hadn’t so far. He swallowed the lump in his throat, working to put the memories as far back in the recesses of his mind as possible. All he needed was some time alone to think things over. If only I could please the heartless bastard! he ruminated angrily.
The intense need to prove himself was the reason why he was over 100 feet in the air at that moment. He was practicing his flying maneuvers, even though Quidditch practice had ended over an hour ago and their first match wasn’t for three more weeks. He worked on improving his dips, turns, swerves, dives, and feints. He loved the feel of the broom in his hands. It was freedom, and it was power, in one simple device. It was easy to lose himself to the feeling that flying gave him.
Reflecting on the abysmal relationship he had with his parents, he determined that it was only because of family pride that he felt any loyalty whatsoever toward Lucius. He was a ruthless ogre, as Ginny Weasley and untold others who had crossed paths with him knew all too well. Somewhere deep in his mind, he knew his father probably did belong in prison, but he couldn’t voice such thoughts aloud; he still felt his obligations too keenly.
Finally, he spied Ginny coming toward the lake. He landed his broom and headed toward the rendezvous point. He greeted her rudely, “About time you got here, Weasley. If you'd arrived any later, I’d probably have missed dinner again.”
She looked at him with anger in her eyes and said, “Sorry, but I got waylaid by Professor McGonagall. She is my Head of House, you know.” He shrugged, looking at her with disdain on his face. When he didn’t reply, she continued, “Anyway, now that we’re through with the pleasantries, I’ve found something out for you. But you’re not going to like it much.”
“Well, what is it?” he demanded, clearly annoyed.
“What you’re looking for is called the Mirror of Erised. It’s here at Hogwarts, but Dumbledore moved it after Harry and Ron found it in their first year. I couldn’t find a good time to talk to Ron, so I asked Harry. According to him, it doesn’t predict the future, as it showed him his parents. Instead, it shows what’s in your heart, what you desire most. He thinks that while it did show Ron what he wanted most, it was only chance that part of it happened to come true.”
“What good is that to me?” Draco asked exasperatedly. “I bloody well know what I want!”
In reply, she gave him a shrewd look and asked him calmly, “Do you?”
“Of course I know! I’ve always known! Ever since I was little, I wanted those things that really matter. Respect, wealth, raw power -- I mean, come on, isn’t that what’s real?”
When she didn’t answer, he ranted, “And how can it not predict anything? Visions in magical mirrors always have some hidden meaning! I ought to know, I’ve read enough pages about them to wallpaper the entire Great Hall.”
Instead of admitting that his hard work had all been in vain, he tried a different approach. Draco suggested, “Maybe it didn’t work for Potter because he refused to let it. Or maybe he didn’t know how to; he is kind of a fuck-up, you know. Ever watch him brew potions?! He’s pathetic.”
His arguments fell on deaf ears. Ginny shook her head, as if his tirade was not convincing her but simply wearing on her. “Well, if you still want to see it for yourself, Harry gave me vague directions to where it was. I think maybe we can find it. Would you be interested?”
“Yes, yes -- I guess so,” he sighed impatiently. “Can we start tomorrow after dinner?” She agreed and then turned to go. He reached out and touched her arm. “Sorry I got so worked up.” He paused then said, “Thank you, Weasley. You’ve saved me loads of work.” He took her hand and lightly kissed the back of it.
“And I’m sure I’ll regret it someday,” she muttered callously. “But then you didn’t give me many choices, did you?”
Gazing intently into her eyes and still holding her hand, he said, “Well, you shouldn’t go about telling family secrets in a public place. You never know who’s listening.” He turned her hand over to rub her palm against his cheek. He closed his eyes momentarily to savor the feel of it and said in a low, husky voice, “You made your own bed, Miss Weasley -- you’ll just have to lie in it.” Now would you please make mine, so you can lie there, too?
Of course, he couldn’t express thoughts like that. If such wicked imaginings were to escape his lips, she would probably rip his testicles off his body and grind them to dust with a pestle. And he had no intention of doing without those; he liked them where they were, thank you very much.
No, he didn’t dare say such things, no matter how intensely he felt them. He ached to pull her into his arms and pick things up where they had left off in the broom closet last night. He wanted to feel her against him; even if she was just Weasley rubbish, she was definitely curved in all the right places. She had felt heavenly, but he resisted the urge this time and let her go. He watched as she left to go back to the castle, when suddenly she turned around and practically ran toward him. What is she doing now?
When she was about eight feet away, he simply had to ask, “What is it, my sweet? Can’t get enough of me?”
She replied hatefully, “You arrogant prat!”
Then what could she possibly want? he wondered, truly bewildered.
Pulling something out of her cloak, she said, “You got me so miffed, I nearly forgot -- I brought you something to eat.” She handed him an apple, a pear, and two rolls. “It’s not much, but I had to try and sneak it without Ron getting suspicious. I know how hungry I get after long Quidditch practices.”
“That’s -- very decent of you, Weasley,” Draco said sincerely. He was rather touched and mildly shocked. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t think you had anyone looking out for you,” she explained awkwardly. “See you tomorrow, then? In that little nook outside of the kitchens at 8:00? It’s near where we’ll be going.” He agreed, and Ginny left for good this time.
He sighed audibly. Feeling great relief that he finally had some solid information about the mirror, he relaxed a bit. He was also very flattered and pleased that Ginny had thought of him. Pansy never brought me any food when she knew I hadn’t eaten. Come to think of it, none of them have. It felt strange, like maybe someone truly did care, and it felt -- well, it felt wonderful.
He suddenly realized how absolutely voracious he was. His teeth pierced the apple, its juices rolling down his chin. As he walked along, he quickly polished off the fruit and ate both rolls. Damn, I must have been starving! I’ll see what Crabbe and Goyle have stashed away from Honeydukes. Maybe I can trade off one of those vile sweets my mum sent me.
With his meeting with Ginny over and his hunger fairly well satisfied, he headed toward the dungeons. He could feel a severe migraine coming on. Damn, these fucking headaches, he bemoaned. They were the bane of his existence, above and beyond anything else he suffered, including his parents, Potter and his crew, stupid classes, and still no girlfriend to ease his pain (not yet, anyway). He was quite certain that someday soon, the pressure of it all would drive him completely around the bend.
He reached his room, and surprisingly, found that no one was there. Hmm, that’s odd. Where is everyone? It’s nearly 8:30. After removing his cloak and stashing his broom, he set about studying for tomorrow’s Herbology test.
As he read, he thought he saw a brief flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t bother to look up. Apparently, one of his roommates had returned. “Blaise, are you back?” he queried absently. When he received no reply, he glanced up from his books and asked, “How did you get in here?"
~End of Chapter~
Oooh, our first cliffhanger! I hope you are even more intrigued (at least, that was the general idea!) ;-)
Note: I hope the flashback scene isn’t too cliché. Please don’t flame me saying you’ve read this kind of scene before; if you haven’t, then you’re fairly new to this realm. Since a lot of D/G fanfic has something on this order, the idea must ring true for most authors. My only hope is that it’s not overtly cheesy (if it is, please send macaroni with your flames). Besides, when Lucius is portrayed as this loving, doting father, it just doesn’t work for me. And come on, you don’t really think he took Draco out to meet the ice cream truck every day when he was a tot, did you? (Tee hee!)
Once again, thanks for reading, and please review. I appreciate your reviews, Astria and Ives!
CHAPTER 4 – Everything’s So Blurry
The next morning, Draco awoke well before sunrise. He’d had a lousy night’s sleep; he was so wound up about his impending meeting with Ginny Weasley that he had not rested very well. The possibility of ending his futile search brought him more joy than anything had since finishing his O.W.L.s last year. And of course, he felt a great deal of satisfaction that someone else would do the work, while he would reap the benefits. What more could a Malfoy ask for?
Knowing that he would be sending Ginny an owl this morning, he was filled with anticipation. He eventually gave up on getting back to sleep. He got out of bed and slipped into his forest green robe. With his brain reeling from lack of sleep, he headed toward the showers. He knew he couldn’t rest until he had written and sent his little note. Maybe he could get a bit more shut-eye before breakfast, once his early morning task was complete. He absolutely could not miss breakfast, however; he wanted to see Ginny’s reaction when she received the owl and to nonverbally confirm their appointment. He refused to be stood up.
After he had dressed and made himself presentable, he wrote a few lines detailing when and where they would meet. He tucked the note inside his immaculately pressed robes and climbed up the stairs to the Common Room. On entering the room, he thought he heard people talking, but the only other person in the room was Michael Grant. He was just staring into the fire, which blazed quite nicely for having been burned to embers late last night. Draco wondered if maybe Michael had nodded off to sleep. “Grant?” he ventured.
Michael quickly turned around, wide awake. Draco had not really expected a reply, and he was somewhat taken aback. The younger boy said, “Morning, Malfoy. What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”
Draco shrugged one shoulder and said, “Couldn’t sleep. I need to send an owl this morning, so I thought I’d get it out of the way.”
“Writing home to your mum?”
“Yes, she misses me,” Draco lied. Yeah, right. Misses her revolving charge accounts is more like it. “And what are you doing up so early?”
"Me? Oh, just checking in with my parents. With a 13-hour time difference, I can’t very well floo them after classes get out, now can I?” he asked good-naturedly.
“No, I suppose not,” he agreed. “See you later, Grant.”
Draco turned to head out the door to go to the owlery when Michael called abruptly, “Malfoy, I’ve been hoping to have a word with you. Have you got a moment?”
He hesitated for a second or two, but then he said resolutely, “Sorry, I really don’t. Mother needs to get this before noon, so I’ve got to send it now. Could we visit when I get back, or perhaps at breakfast?”
“How about I walk to the owlery with you?” Michael suggested. “I’ve been meaning to go there, anyway. I’ve got this letter to send to my little sister -- she misses me terribly -- and I still tend to get a bit lost around here on my own. Maybe you could show me the most direct route?”
Seeing no way out of this, short of being brusquely rude, Draco acquiesced to Michael going with him. After all, he was a Slytherin prefect, and turning down a plea for assistance one’s own housemate’s would make him look very bad indeed.
As they walked, the younger boy remarked, “I can’t tell you what a thrill it is for me to finally be at Hogwarts.”
“Oh? What school did you attend prior?” Draco asked, not really caring, but attempting to make polite small talk.
“Well, I was home-schooled by my mum until I was 13. She’s a teacher by training, so she taught me the basics. Then I attended Winslett Academy for the Magically Gifted in Wellington for two years, but I just had to get out. It’s an all right school, mind you, but to be perfectly frank, they have too few teachers who are pureblood wizards and far too many muggle-borns enrolled.”
“I know what you mean,” Draco commented. “We’ve got that problem here as well. Suppose it’s everywhere, except maybe at Durmstrang.”
“Would you believe the girl who portrayed the Goddess at last year’s Samhain Festival was a filthy mudblood swine?” Michael spat in disgust. “Not just a halfblood, mind you -- neither of her parents were magical. Now don’t get me wrong, she was very pretty, but where is the pride in one’s heritage? Why even have such festivals, if you’re going to have key roles portrayed by those who have no true sense of what they’re about?”
“Shameful,” Draco threw in, just for conversation.
Michael went on. “Anyhow, my parents thought it was best that I move on. Winslett is the only magical school in New Zealand, and Australia’s academy is even worse, which forced us to look elsewhere.” After a moment’s silence, Michael summarized in a very satisfied tone of voice, “So, here I am.”
“And why would you want to come here, specifically? In what way could Hogwarts possibly be ‘thrilling’?” Draco inquired. “Our headmaster is enamored with mudbloods, halfbloods, and even muggles. He thinks that we should cooperate,” he said as if he were about to vomit.
“Well, partly because of my grandfather. Besides, he went to school here, you know. He was Head Boy, in his day,” Michael said matter-of-factly.
“Who?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “Your grandfather?”
“Oh, no, certainly not,” Michael laughed. Then he whispered slowly, emphasizing each word: “Him. You-Know-Who.”
When Draco caught his meaning, he said, “But that was ages ago -- anyone who instructed him would surely be long gone --”
“Yes, but his legacy lives on here. It’s alive in these very walls,” Michael said quietly, as if the walls could hear him. Draco thought he looked a bit mad.
Michael stopped walking. He turned to face Draco, took hold of his arm, and said in a hushed but very resolute voice, “He’s going to make our world The World. Not hidden in secrecy, but proud of what we are. We’re better than muggles, and they need to know that. We’ll be in charge of things, instead of those hapless muggles.” He paused for a moment. “And I intend to help him with all of my being,” he added with a solemn nod.
Draco wondered at Michael’s grim determination and eyed him thoughtfully. The sharp look of determination on the younger man’s face caused Draco to feel surprise, admiration, and a bit of envy, all at the same time. His own devotion to the Dark Lord was not quite this intense. In fact, if he had this much enthusiasm, Lucius would have beamed with pride.
When they had reached their destination, Draco found himself in a rather uncomfortable predicament. True, he did have a note inside his robes, but it certainly wasn’t to his mother. If Michael were to recognize the owl he chose now and saw it delivering a message at the Gryffindor table, he might get suspicious. He would know that he had lied, and that could raise a number of awkward questions Draco would have no intention of answering.
He was in a bit of a tight spot until Michael unwittingly solved his dilemma for him. All signs of insanity gone, he laughed, “Oh, bugger, I am such a moron. I grabbed the wrong note.” He looked around the hall then said, “You know, I think I can manage to find the way back on my own. Thanks loads; this way is much better.” Draco wondered vaguely, How else would you get here?
They parted ways, Michael returning to the dungeons and Draco proceeding to send his note. When he returned to the Slytherin Common Room, Michael was nowhere to be seen. Probably went back to bed, Draco guessed. It’s far too early to be up. His own mission complete, he went down to his own room for a bit of a lie-in. He slept like a baby.
At the Great Hall, the owls came right on schedule. Draco saw his land directly in front of Ginny Weasley. She removed the parchment with some trepidation. Trying not to draw attention to herself, she discretely gave the owl a tidbit off her plate then held the note under the table to read it. It said:
Tonight at 7:30. Be at the lake on the side closest to the Quidditch pitch. Wear a cloak with a hood. Don’t be seen, and DON’T BE LATE.
She glanced across the room to find him. Her eyes met his, and she gave a very brief nod in his direction. When she saw him acknowledge her by slightly raising one eyebrow, she immediately looked away. It’s settled then. Good, he thought.
Draco tuned into on the conversation that was going on around him. It was the usual fare, each of them bragging about what he or she was doing to further The Cause. Most of his friends were working to recruit converts to their side, while making life difficult for those who refused. They hoped to prove their loyalty by eventually purging Hogwarts of its mudblood population. Blaise was in the midst of a heated argument with Millicent Bulstrode when Pansy Parkinson chimed in. “Well, at least one of us is actually doing something,” she commented haughtily.
Blaise asked Pansy, “Oh, yeah? Exactly what are you doing? Enticing people by offering to sleep with them, like our Millicent here?” Draco could see in Millicent’s face that the accusation had stung. Although she was appalled by his remark, the group laughed loudly at Blaise, so he continued digging. “Got any takers, ladies? Didn’t think so. Not even a mudblood would want a piece of that.”
“You coldhearted bastard!” Millicent cried, as the tears threatened to spill over her lashes.
Pansy turned to her and cooed gently, “Everyone knows that, dear.” Then she looked Blaise directly in the eye and said, “That’s why he had to go to America to find a girlfriend. No one here would have the vile maggot.”
Blaise gave her a look of utter disgust, which Pansy returned unflinchingly. “No, I’ve joined the Advanced Herbology class,” she announced, taking a bite of a banger and looking very self-satisfied.
He almost spit out his pumpkin juice then asked her incredulously, “Whatever for?!”
“Sabotage, my dear,” Pansy said sweetly and chuckling softly. “It was Michael Grant’s idea, really. He thought that at least one of us ought to join so we are kept informed.”
Draco joined in, his voice laced with sarcasm, “If none of us knew, then who exactly are you keeping informed, dear?”
“Never you mind, love.” She said the last word in an acerbic tone. “It’s in very good hands, I assure you.” They glowered at one another. He couldn’t abide her, ever since they had gone to the Yule Ball together in their fourth year. When they’d gone down to his room later that night, she was most uncooperative, and he resented her for denying him what he thought was his due. Not that he desired her today; on the contrary, he found her somewhat repulsive by his usual standards, but her rejection had hurt him.
And she would have been my first, too! I thought girls liked having that honor. I heard she finally gave over to Marcus Flint. Ah, well, it was her loss, Draco reminisced. He watched his housemates interact. Blaise and Pansy seemed to have stopped bickering for the moment. She pointed a finger at him and commanded sternly, “Now you apologize to Millicent.” Blaise turned to Millicent and asked if she could please forgive him for his rudeness. See, Slytherins do care about each other, in our own . . . unique way.
Draco tried to remain focused on the day’s lessons to keep his mind off of his impending meeting with the little Weaslette. It was Wednesday, which meant Defense Against the Dark Arts with Lupin first thing in the morning (groan), followed by Herbology (double groan). He had Advanced Potions for most of the afternoon, then Quidditch practice after his lessons. This would be a very long day indeed.
Defense Against the Dark Arts and Herbology were still dry and tedious for him, no matter how allegedly advanced the material became. Advanced Potions was both challenging and rewarding, as was Transfiguration. Thankfully, for sixth and seventh years, Care of Magical Creatures was an optional elective, and he opted to get the hell out of it.
As always, Potions was his favorite class, and he put in extra time and care to keep his skills sharp. The only drawback was that the mudblood Granger was an advanced student as well. However, this did give him someone to harass whenever he felt the need. Of course, neither Weasley nor Potter had qualified for Advanced Potions. Shock, shock -- I guess Potter must still be in remedial potions? The thought of it just slayed him, and he broke into a malicious grin at the memory.
Draco seemed to have a gift for brewing potions. Maybe it was because of his meticulous nature, or his keen powers of observation, or perhaps his innate desire to prove that he was the best. He wasn’t sure exactly why he felt he had to convince others, but he certainly had become adept at making potions.
During his fifth year, it seemed that Draco’s hard work was finally paying off. His Potions marks had surpassed Granger’s. For the past two terms, he had been named the top Potions student in his year. He deserved it, as he certainly worked harder than she did. He felt great satisfaction when Professor Snape’s congratulatory letter arrived, and he recalled the day with clarity.
The Hogwarts owl arrived two days before Christmas. “Finally!” Draco said. Professor Snape had already congratulated him personally two weeks ago, but his father didn’t know yet. In order to surprise him, Draco had asked his teacher to address the envelope to him rather than to Lucius.
Since returning home from school, he had been waiting anxiously for this very owl to arrive. Draco longed to show his father this letter as undeniable proof that he was the best. It held the key to an early Christmas present, one that was worth much more than anything he would receive the day after tomorrow. Surely, this would earn him the reward he craved more than anything else: his father’s admiration.
Breathless, he found Father in his study and handed him the letter. Draco’s heart was in his throat, thumping with expectancy.
Lucius took the parchment from him. After he had perused it lazily, he flipped it over, inhaled and exhaled slowly, and then said an offhand manner, “Hmm, I see. It seems as though you have finally done better at something than that worthless mudblood. Tell me, did she leave the school, or is she already in Advanced Potions? ”
Draco bit his tongue to keep from gasping aloud. The words stung like Cruciatus. How could his own father treat him so callously?
Lucius then intensified his wounds by remarking uncaringly, “Well, I see you have finally managed to achieve something worthy of your name, son. About damn time, too.”
A high compliment, indeed.
Sadly, the boy realized that this was the extent of the praise he would receive from his father. He had hoped for more. Foolish, really. Draco winced, hoping his father wouldn’t notice the weak spot he had just trampled upon.
But he did. He always did.
“You are my curse in this life, boy,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve been a disappointment to me since you were six years old and you fell off your first broomstick. Just had to fly too high and show off, didn’t you?”
“I said I was sorry, Father,” Draco pleaded in a quiet voice. “It was an accident.”
“As for me, I think that fall must have jarred something lose in that thick head of yours. Then that stupid bint just had to go and mend your arm and your ribs. I told her that a little overnight suffering would be a good lesson for you, but she couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
Draco didn’t respond. He looked down at his finely-cut robes and his shiny black shoes. What did such trifles matter if he couldn’t even get a kind word from the man he admired so fervently?
He soon felt the redness of embarrassment and impotence rising in his cheeks. At this point, anything he could say would only bring him more scorn. Lucius asked him haughtily, “Do you think I intend to see all these years of hard work and private tutelage go to waste? When are you ever going to earn the name of Malfoy?”
“I’m sorry, Father. I’ll do better,” Draco replied softly.
Thick tears welled in the boy’s eyes. He fought valiantly to keep them from falling, but they betrayed him when Lucius concluded their little father-son chat by saying to him coldly, “I doubt it. Now go on, I have work to do.”
Draco’s mother had been no better. Narcissa cared even less than Lucius did, if that were possible. All in all, it turned out to be his worst Christmas ever, and the bitter recollections still pained him. He planned to stay at school during this year’s winter hols, what with his mother rarely at home and an unfeeling bitch when she was. What would be the point?
He had hoped this helplessness and frustration would ease with time, but it hadn’t so far. He swallowed the lump in his throat, working to put the memories as far back in the recesses of his mind as possible. All he needed was some time alone to think things over. If only I could please the heartless bastard! he ruminated angrily.
The intense need to prove himself was the reason why he was over 100 feet in the air at that moment. He was practicing his flying maneuvers, even though Quidditch practice had ended over an hour ago and their first match wasn’t for three more weeks. He worked on improving his dips, turns, swerves, dives, and feints. He loved the feel of the broom in his hands. It was freedom, and it was power, in one simple device. It was easy to lose himself to the feeling that flying gave him.
Reflecting on the abysmal relationship he had with his parents, he determined that it was only because of family pride that he felt any loyalty whatsoever toward Lucius. He was a ruthless ogre, as Ginny Weasley and untold others who had crossed paths with him knew all too well. Somewhere deep in his mind, he knew his father probably did belong in prison, but he couldn’t voice such thoughts aloud; he still felt his obligations too keenly.
Finally, he spied Ginny coming toward the lake. He landed his broom and headed toward the rendezvous point. He greeted her rudely, “About time you got here, Weasley. If you'd arrived any later, I’d probably have missed dinner again.”
She looked at him with anger in her eyes and said, “Sorry, but I got waylaid by Professor McGonagall. She is my Head of House, you know.” He shrugged, looking at her with disdain on his face. When he didn’t reply, she continued, “Anyway, now that we’re through with the pleasantries, I’ve found something out for you. But you’re not going to like it much.”
“Well, what is it?” he demanded, clearly annoyed.
“What you’re looking for is called the Mirror of Erised. It’s here at Hogwarts, but Dumbledore moved it after Harry and Ron found it in their first year. I couldn’t find a good time to talk to Ron, so I asked Harry. According to him, it doesn’t predict the future, as it showed him his parents. Instead, it shows what’s in your heart, what you desire most. He thinks that while it did show Ron what he wanted most, it was only chance that part of it happened to come true.”
“What good is that to me?” Draco asked exasperatedly. “I bloody well know what I want!”
In reply, she gave him a shrewd look and asked him calmly, “Do you?”
“Of course I know! I’ve always known! Ever since I was little, I wanted those things that really matter. Respect, wealth, raw power -- I mean, come on, isn’t that what’s real?”
When she didn’t answer, he ranted, “And how can it not predict anything? Visions in magical mirrors always have some hidden meaning! I ought to know, I’ve read enough pages about them to wallpaper the entire Great Hall.”
Instead of admitting that his hard work had all been in vain, he tried a different approach. Draco suggested, “Maybe it didn’t work for Potter because he refused to let it. Or maybe he didn’t know how to; he is kind of a fuck-up, you know. Ever watch him brew potions?! He’s pathetic.”
His arguments fell on deaf ears. Ginny shook her head, as if his tirade was not convincing her but simply wearing on her. “Well, if you still want to see it for yourself, Harry gave me vague directions to where it was. I think maybe we can find it. Would you be interested?”
“Yes, yes -- I guess so,” he sighed impatiently. “Can we start tomorrow after dinner?” She agreed and then turned to go. He reached out and touched her arm. “Sorry I got so worked up.” He paused then said, “Thank you, Weasley. You’ve saved me loads of work.” He took her hand and lightly kissed the back of it.
“And I’m sure I’ll regret it someday,” she muttered callously. “But then you didn’t give me many choices, did you?”
Gazing intently into her eyes and still holding her hand, he said, “Well, you shouldn’t go about telling family secrets in a public place. You never know who’s listening.” He turned her hand over to rub her palm against his cheek. He closed his eyes momentarily to savor the feel of it and said in a low, husky voice, “You made your own bed, Miss Weasley -- you’ll just have to lie in it.” Now would you please make mine, so you can lie there, too?
Of course, he couldn’t express thoughts like that. If such wicked imaginings were to escape his lips, she would probably rip his testicles off his body and grind them to dust with a pestle. And he had no intention of doing without those; he liked them where they were, thank you very much.
No, he didn’t dare say such things, no matter how intensely he felt them. He ached to pull her into his arms and pick things up where they had left off in the broom closet last night. He wanted to feel her against him; even if she was just Weasley rubbish, she was definitely curved in all the right places. She had felt heavenly, but he resisted the urge this time and let her go. He watched as she left to go back to the castle, when suddenly she turned around and practically ran toward him. What is she doing now?
When she was about eight feet away, he simply had to ask, “What is it, my sweet? Can’t get enough of me?”
She replied hatefully, “You arrogant prat!”
Then what could she possibly want? he wondered, truly bewildered.
Pulling something out of her cloak, she said, “You got me so miffed, I nearly forgot -- I brought you something to eat.” She handed him an apple, a pear, and two rolls. “It’s not much, but I had to try and sneak it without Ron getting suspicious. I know how hungry I get after long Quidditch practices.”
“That’s -- very decent of you, Weasley,” Draco said sincerely. He was rather touched and mildly shocked. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t think you had anyone looking out for you,” she explained awkwardly. “See you tomorrow, then? In that little nook outside of the kitchens at 8:00? It’s near where we’ll be going.” He agreed, and Ginny left for good this time.
He sighed audibly. Feeling great relief that he finally had some solid information about the mirror, he relaxed a bit. He was also very flattered and pleased that Ginny had thought of him. Pansy never brought me any food when she knew I hadn’t eaten. Come to think of it, none of them have. It felt strange, like maybe someone truly did care, and it felt -- well, it felt wonderful.
He suddenly realized how absolutely voracious he was. His teeth pierced the apple, its juices rolling down his chin. As he walked along, he quickly polished off the fruit and ate both rolls. Damn, I must have been starving! I’ll see what Crabbe and Goyle have stashed away from Honeydukes. Maybe I can trade off one of those vile sweets my mum sent me.
With his meeting with Ginny over and his hunger fairly well satisfied, he headed toward the dungeons. He could feel a severe migraine coming on. Damn, these fucking headaches, he bemoaned. They were the bane of his existence, above and beyond anything else he suffered, including his parents, Potter and his crew, stupid classes, and still no girlfriend to ease his pain (not yet, anyway). He was quite certain that someday soon, the pressure of it all would drive him completely around the bend.
He reached his room, and surprisingly, found that no one was there. Hmm, that’s odd. Where is everyone? It’s nearly 8:30. After removing his cloak and stashing his broom, he set about studying for tomorrow’s Herbology test.
As he read, he thought he saw a brief flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t bother to look up. Apparently, one of his roommates had returned. “Blaise, are you back?” he queried absently. When he received no reply, he glanced up from his books and asked, “How did you get in here?"
~End of Chapter~
Oooh, our first cliffhanger! I hope you are even more intrigued (at least, that was the general idea!) ;-)
Note: I hope the flashback scene isn’t too cliché. Please don’t flame me saying you’ve read this kind of scene before; if you haven’t, then you’re fairly new to this realm. Since a lot of D/G fanfic has something on this order, the idea must ring true for most authors. My only hope is that it’s not overtly cheesy (if it is, please send macaroni with your flames). Besides, when Lucius is portrayed as this loving, doting father, it just doesn’t work for me. And come on, you don’t really think he took Draco out to meet the ice cream truck every day when he was a tot, did you? (Tee hee!)
Once again, thanks for reading, and please review. I appreciate your reviews, Astria and Ives!
Leave a Review