The Dragon, the Witch and the Wardrobe

AN: Hey readers. I'm trying something new. Still working on the other fic but this is one I've wanted to do for a while and I'd like to finally start in on it. Some of you already know that my free time is pretty limited and I can't promise constant updates as I'm basically working two full-time jobs and attempting to go back to school to pursue my career soon. I'm jumping straight into this but it's been a while so please excuse my writing if it's rusty. It's a bit intimidating to finally post a HP fanfic, mostly because I've read so many stellar ones and I just hope mine can measure up enough to be an enjoyable read... especially with the considerable fan base for JKR's work. As I've stated in the summary, this starts off at the beginning of HBP and depending on how much time I can spare and the requests of any readers I'll try to write through Deathly Hallows as well. Aside from a few skews in Draco's upbringing, I'll try to stick as close to canon content as possible although there may be a bit of Ron bashing eventually. Can't help that, much as I love his character. I hope you enjoy this chapter even though it's horribly short. I'd love reviews if you can spare the time! Thanks for reading.

P.S. Credit where it's due: the title is obviously influenced by C. S. Lewis. Don't want to mess with any copyright laws, do I?

Petra

His forearm burned. Even in the cool dark of his bedroom, even with the crisp night air blowing through his window from the expansive garden, his whole body pulsed with a kind of angry heat that made him want to scratch at it until he bled... until he sloughed off his skin like the snake that was his house mascot. But the pain was nothing to the jumble of thoughts that roared between his ears in a never ending swell. He'd always looked up to his father. He'd learned practically in the womb that some values were to be honored above all others: heritage, the purity of wizarding blood, proper conduct and a sharp eye to exploit an opponent's weakness and gain control... and family. Above all else, the need to protect and perfect his bloodline.

"A Malfoy does what is necessary to uphold his family. You must be strong enough to protect them, flawless in the eyes of your peers and ruthless in your faith to the purity of our ancestry." It was a mantra he'd memorized at his father's knee. He'd stared into those grey eyes that so matched his own and known no other truth. He'd lived to make his father proud. And here he was, traded in like some prize pig.

He scratched idly at his arm again and winced as the irritation grew into an inferno. The serpent and skull embedded in his flesh seemed to sink deeper and the inflammation only grew worse as the itch carried down into his bones. It was as good as poison. He'd done everything his family had ever expected of him, challenges be damned. But this was different. He'd had no warning before being summoned to the dining room. He'd never discussed his parents' involvement in the dark arts. It wasn't a topic they'd directly approached and he'd been too courteous and aware of his father's calculating stare to ever question the alliance. Sure, he'd known the Dark Lord had taken to presiding over gatherings in his family's estate. In his youth he'd thoughtlessly threatened his lessers, knowing full well that the Malfoy name had been feared greatly during the war. But now his father was in Azkaban and taking the mark wasn't something he'd been prepared for.

He'd never paid much attention to his aunt Bellatrix's mad ravings about her beloved Lord. She'd had plenty of time to go spare during her own imprisonment in Azkaban and while he tolerated her in the same way his mother did - with perfect respect and an impassive expression - he'd had no idea when she escorted him down the sweeping expanse of the marble hallway that his destination would be Hell itself.

He clenched his teeth, remembering that gaunt face and the lipless smile that had graced it as he knelt before the gods-damned Lord and swore his fealty. He'd had no choice. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen his mother watching beside the empty spot where his father would have stood and the betrayal that bubbled inside of him had nearly broken through the occlumency shields that he'd drilled into place so many years ago.

Occlumency had been a requirement in being both flawless and ruthless. Lucius had told him as much on countless occasions as his younger self sweated and writhed on the floor of that same room, struggling to lock his mind into safety.

But tonight the Dark Lord had smiled as though he could taste the roil of emotions as easily as if there had been no shields at all. He'd looked nearly mad with glee as he'd pushed his wand into the flesh of Draco's left arm. And then the searing pain had begun and as spots obscured his vision, Draco knew only that this was more than he'd bargained for.

He'd felt empty as his aunt practically kicked him upright again. As his remaining family did nothing but silently observe. The shock was too great. But the anger had come later.

Standing at the curtains of his balcony, Draco sifted through the memories of his upbringing for the hundredth time. There had been no mention of a future enslaved. He'd been raised to act without question, told he'd be rewarded with greatness beyond his wildest imaginings. It seemed his father had lied.

He could see the Dark Mark easily in the moonlight, the snake twining around his forearm as if determined to squeeze the perfectly pure blood right out of his veins, and wondered how many other lies he'd been fed.

Hermione huffed as she read through the Daily Prophet, flipping the pages with a sharp snap. No substantial news of Voldemort, of course. She wasn't really surprised, but she'd been hoping for something aside from the drivel of reports with no lead and trivial quidditch scores and gossip. Who bloody cared which wizard caught a ball while whizzing through the air on a broomstick when the most dangerous mass-murderer in the history of the wizarding world was at large? Not to mention the total gibberish spun by the Skeeter menace as she wrote scathing lies about the mental state of both Harry and Dumbledore. She flung the paper on her bed with a scoff of disgust and turned to the pile of books on her desk. Even her beloved tomes couldn't soothe her nerves as she thought of her very best friend. Oh, she hoped Harry wasn't reading the papers. She doubted there was much else he could do, however. Being stranded with the Dursleys wasn't something she'd wish on anyone... well okay, maybe Malfoy.

Her thoughts turned to the arrogant blonde and for a moment her irritation grew. No doubt he'd enjoy waving the contents of those articles in Harry's face at start of term.

"Git." She muttered to herself, but then her eyes widened as she remembered the article in the Prophet just the week before. Lucius Malfoy had finally landed himself a cell in Azkaban. It had been front page news. How could she have forgotten?

Her frown deepened as she stared at the stack of old papers on her bedside table. She'd combed through each one, hoping to find some insight that would help Harry prepare for whatever was coming, but she hadn't spared a thought to the family of their Slytherin nemesis. She sat back down and pulled the stack onto her lap, rifling through until she found the article. Sure enough, there was a photograph of the family. Malfoy stood next to his mother, looking both pale and decidedly protective as he turned his back on the incessant flash of the cameras.

A loud meow sounded from behind her as her beloved cat settled himself on the bed and batted her arm affectionately.

"Merlin, Crooks," she sighed, scratching the kneazle cross-breed under the chin. "I have no idea what to expect this year."