(Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter, its characters, places, etc are the creation of J K Rowling. I take no credit for any of that stuff, so don't sue me.)
NOTES
This is my first fanfic, so any constructive criticism is welcome.
If some things don't seem to fit, it's because I haven't read the 6th book, and probably won't.
Please don't flame me! However awful you think I might be.
This is not a slash fic, for those of you who are looking for any. I also have no plans to 'ship any characters (but you never know, I might change my mind).
I have rated this T. If you think this is unsuitable, or if you have any other problems, please let me know.
Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End
It was a dewy morning in late august, and the sun hung pale in the sky. The soft rays stretched over the land, touching every blade of grass in the garden. The garden itself was enormous. Flat, perfect grass glistened in the sun, while privet hedges twisted into embellishing shapes that reached towering heights. Tall, elegant ebony trees swayed gently in the breeze. Deep purple roses blossomed, spiralling around latticed lawn ornaments.
Squatting in the middle of this grandeur there was an austere building, belittled by the grounds, yet still majestically huge. It was a large manor with many stories and windows. Its grey, polished bricks gleamed as the sunlight touched them, and its many chimneys encircled the structure like a crown. At one of the windows, there stood a boy.
His name was Draco Malfoy, and he was a young wizard. He had a pale, pointed face and silvery blonde hair. He stared out coldly at the glorious dawn. He had been awake for hours, with that wretched dream again.
He turned away from the window and looked around his bedroom, bored. The enormous room's centrepiece was a four poster bed, and the general theme of the room was polished ebony.
Draco brushed nonexistent dust off his crisp robes. There was nothing to do. He strode over to a long, dark, wooden case. In it rested his broomstick, a Nimbus Two Thousand and One.
"I haven't been out on my broom for a while," he mused to himself. "but what's the point if I haven't even got a Firebolt? Oh well, might as well practice seeking on this useless thing." He opened the case and took out the beautiful broom. He held it up, unimpressed, thinking only of how it wasn't a Firebolt. He then tucked it under his arm and hurried out of the door.
On the landing, he looked over the balcony, his parents were there, talking in conspiratorial voices. They stopped talking and looked up at him.
"Are you going out for a fly?" asked his father.
"Well, I was going to do some practicing for Quidditch," Draco said, stroppily, making his way down the curling staircase. "But why even bother when I haven't got a Firebolt?"
"Oh, not this again," said his mother, wearily.
"Not now, Draco. We are expecting visitors soon." his father said.
"But Harry Potter has a Firebolt! And he's not even any good; the only reason everyone thinks he's good is because he's got a Firebolt. At least we could afford one, and then I'd finally be able to beat him in Qu-" But Draco was interrupted in mid- whine by the deep sound of the doorbell. "Who are we expecting?" he said, leaning his broom on the sculpture at the foot of the stairs.
"Mr and Mrs Lurche."
"Who are they?"
His mother flapped a hand at him, "I told you yesterday, Draco, they're to take care of some… things for us."
"Oh, right," said Draco, as his father opened the huge, oak door.
"Welcome, welcome," his father said, silkily.
Two figures stepped slowly into the hall; a man and a woman.
"Has it really been that long, Lucius?" said the man, spreading his arms. "I haven't seen you in ages!" the man was tall, with an indistinguishable shape, as he wore so many things. He sported a bashed- in top hat, pulled low over his face, and a multicoloured scarf wrapped up to his chin. His emerald green coat swept the floor. "Yes, well," drawled Lucius "given both our reputations, it might have been a bit ostentatious to meet up regularly…" he gave a tight- lipped smile.
"Yup, I got you," said Mr Lurche, tapping his nose. He straightened up and extended a hand sideways. "You remember my wife, Giselle,"
This seemed to be a cue because the woman suddenly sprang into life, "Narcissa, darling!"
Draco watched from the sidelines as his mother changed her grimace into a pained smile and lent forward to hug this odd woman.
"It's so good to see you again!" she beamed, falsely. Pulling a face of disgust as soon as Giselle had turned away.
Lucius and Mr Lurche began an in- depth discussion of dark items, and Narcissa was trying hard to make small talk with Giselle. Giselle suddenly spotted Draco.
"And who's this then, eh?" she said, smiling at Draco, who had been sulking, forgotten in the corner. "That couldn't be little Draco Malfoy now, could it?"
"Yes, actually," said Draco, scowling at being called "little".
The woman grinned, "when I last saw you, you were this high," she said, gesturing to about the size of a large cat. Draco saw his mother appear behind Giselle, "why don't you give Mrs Lurche a tour of the house?" she suggested, widening her eyes at him.
"Oh all right, then" he said, grudgingly. "Mrs Lurche, can I interest you in a grand tour?"
"Of course you can, poppet,"
Draco instantly hated his mother for leaving him with this kook. As he led Mrs Lurche around the hall, shot a glance at his mother, who was walking away, with her hand to her brow.
"And that concludes the downstairs tour." finished Draco, irritably.
The ghastly old woman was a nightmare. She had done nothing but patronize him ask stupid questions about school. And the nicknames! "Poppet", "sweetie", "munchkin", for goodness' sake! "Does she think I'm five years old?" he thought angrily to himself.
"Oh, wait a moment, young man!" called that grating, nasal voice. Draco uttered a curse word under his breath.
"What is it now, Mrs Lurche?" he said through gritted teeth. The polite veneer was close to cracking.
"Don't go running off, now!" she chided, playfully. "You might get lost in this big house."
Draco wondered what it would be like to kill her. He forced himself to smile. "Just a little bit longer." he told himself, "They must be nearly done by now." He felt a tug at his sleeve, turned and saw Mrs Lurche pointing to the stairs.
"How about an upstairs tour, then?"
"Uh," said Draco, thinking fast, "There may not be time. Wouldn't my father and your husband be finished by now?" By the end of the sentence he was almost pleading. Mrs Lurche, however, merely gave him a toothless grin.
"No, no, my dear," she said. "sometimes grown- ups need to talk for a really long time." Draco glared daggers into her, but she seemed not to notice. "How about that upstairs tour, then?" she said, patting him on the head.
"Fine!" he snarled, smoothing down his hair angrily. He didn't know how long he could last. He wanted to lash out, but he knew this meeting was important for his family.
He had gotten to the mountainous sculpture at the foot of the stairs the miserable old woman grabbed him.
"You'll help a poor old woman up the stairs, wont you?" she said, wrapping her bare, shrivelled arm around his.
"Of course." It was everything he could do to just stay polite. "I'd better be getting a Firebolt for this!" he thought furiously.
As the dreadful woman prattled on, he finally reached the top, and had to stop because Mrs Lurche was out of breath.
"And that was our staircase," he said in a tour- guide type voice. "To the left, we have the master r-" he stopped. He could hear muffled voices downstairs. His mother was saying "Take this as well", and Mr Lurche seemed to be saying something like "got to be on my way". this meant they must be finishing up. He was free!
He turned to the dreadful Mrs Lurche, who had straightened up and was looking around aimlessly at the top of the stairs.
"Mrs Lurche," he tapped her bony shoulder. But Mrs Lurche didn't turn round; she stiffened.
"Mrs Lurche?" he said a little uncertainly. He shook her shoulder a bit, but she still didn't move. Draco's hand felt unusualy hot. He thought perhaps this woman was sweaty, and leapt back, but he found he couldn't let go of her shoulder.
"Ugh!" he gasped, struggling. His hand seemed to be burning, pulsing. Mrs Lurche slowly turned around, and Draco saw that her face was filled with horror. Her eyes bulged as she rasped and struggled for breath. Draco's hand was burning, in agony. He pulled, trying to free it, while Mrs Lurche was writhing to release herself. She slipped, and time seemed to slow down. As she fell backwards, Draco's hand seemed to unstuck itself. He caught one last glimpse of the old woman's horrified face before she tumbled down the stairs. Down and down she fell, and landed with a muffled thud
Draco stood there, frozen at the top of the stairs. What had he done? The small body of Mrs Lurche was lying motionless at the foot of the marble staircase. Her shoulder was covered in blood, with a hand- shaped indent where Draco had gripped it. He stared at his own hand, wide- eyed with shock, as it was also covered in blood.
He heard the sound of hurried footsteps, and both his parents rushed into the hall, followed closely by Mr Lurche, who had a stone pot tucked under his arm.
"My God!" he gasped, stopping in his tracks. They all stared at the still form of Mrs Lurche, and then up at Draco, their accusing eyes fixed on his bloody hand.