Disclaimer: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K. and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes!
Somewhere Only We Know
Chapter One
Friends From the Past
Draco's eyes lifted from the porcelain plate that was resting below his closed mouth, his lowered jaw, and his very distant thoughts. On such a plate, on such a joyous occasion, only the most mouthwatering, personal favorite foods of the nearly seventeen-year-old Malfoy heir were to be eaten, preferably inhaled, being that it was the first time he had been sitting down to dinner with his family since he had returned home from Hogwarts.
Every little inch of his intricately carved plate was piled with these foods, the foods that he craved all year long. With lowering eyes, for the first time since he had been home, he shifted his attention toward the black cloth napkin that was folded in a triangular half upon the lap of his crisp white trousers, searching for some sort of reaction, there, that he could glue to his face, and he had been doing this for years; the news his father had just spoken had rendered him completely speechless, unable to form the appropriate reaction, even in his own brain. It was silent. Silent!
Lucius Malfoy had come in for breakfast. Late. Lucius Malfoy was rarely ever late... anywhere—to any event, to any meal, to any tiny appointment—and if anyone ever showed up for breakfast, particularly Draco, three seconds lingering, once he had taken his seat, he would be looked down upon for the rest of breakfast and would have to deal with a short, prompt meeting from the cold eyes of the abruptly impatient man who sat at the very end of the long, polished, shining, spotless wooden table that adorned the dining parlor of the Malfoy Manor.
After jumping off of his proverbial high-horse, without even glancing at Draco, who had been patiently waiting for his father's arrival since about five minutes prior, the man held up the latest edition of the Daily Prophet and then tossed it down onto the table with an emphatic slap. The news must have been unprecedentedly huge, because the expression upon Lucius's face was that of pure delight, as were the faces of the unannounced, uninvited guests who strolled into the grand room behind him.
Narcissa Malfoy, who sat on the left side of the table, in the center, between the two ends where her husband and son faced each other, was the first to question the strange expression on the usually tame and controlled face, "Hmm, this better be good, Lucius. You're late, a crime you so often like to spit at. What is it that has you looking like an actual human being, with actual human emotions, this morning?"
Draco's eyes latched onto his mother, and they hadn't done so, so pointedly, either, since he had arrived home. Though he was quite aware that his parents had been spending less and less time together, over the last few months, he had never directly heard his mother address his father in such a way--never, in fact, had he heard her take such a shrill voice with his father. His question was the same as his mother's, though he hadn't dared to call his father on it, much less in front of visitors, and had let it pass.
It was a rarity for Draco to call his father out on any flaw or mishap—a stumble of words, improper use of a word, a wrongly pronounced herb, etc.—because when he did so, he eventually regretted it. He had learned his lesson, as well as his place.
"Even you couldn't ruin this morning for me, Narcissa," Lucius responded coolly, though Draco could somehow tell he had been startled and surprised that his mother had spoken to him as she had, especially in front of his gentlemen friends, who had all quieted down after she had spoken those words; she had made her displeasure quite apparent. Instead of giving her the satisfaction, however, Lucius just picked up the paper, again, and turned it around to face the similarly colored mother and son, neither of which cared to see him at the moment. "Judging by your expressions, however, I can see that you haven't heard the news."
"Is that what you call murder, now, Lucius? News. It's not news."
"Uh—I—uh, mother," Draco immediately scolded her, dutifully, though inwardly he was impressed with her. Regardless of how his parents treated each other right in front of him, they had never discussed "it" with him. He was supposed to believe that they were perfectly happy, and while he was supposed to believe that, everything else pointed him in the opposite direction. It was unheard of, in their circle of society, for a woman of his mother's ranking and privilege to publicly insult or challenge her husband, especially in front of guests. But, though her speaking up was a slight shock, her words were not. She had spoken to Draco, in the last few weeks of his school term, about his father, in her weekly letters. She was fed up, and Draco could empathize with that, and so he continued more softly. "Mother, please? This is hardly the place, hardly the time. We have guests."
Narcissa picked up her fork, "Yes, Draco, I can see that. I'm famished, and I think we should eat. Lucius, are you going to join us or will you be eating when we finish, like you make Draco do when he's late for breakfast?"
Draco looked back at his father un-apologetically. His mother did have a point there. They had been waiting for him to join them, and now he came waltzing in with an army of colleagues and associates behind him. He seemed to have absolutely no intention of sitting down to enjoy an awkwardly cold, delightfully-sarcastic breakfast, though, which would, no doubt, consist mostly of silence or snide remarks between his two guardians. He'd rather just sit there with his mother and enjoy light, genuine conversation.
Annoyed with all of the hesitation in the room, Draco finally spoke up, "Father, if you have news, get it over with."
It had been at that very moment when his eyes had taken in the Daily Prophet, which was still held up.
Narcissa did not make a sound, but Draco heard the clattering of a fork onto a plate. Still, she did not make a sound to the news on the front page of the Daily Prophet. It was obviously a Special Edition, maybe one of the most special editions to have ever been published. The heartbeat that had been so vibrantly beating inside of Draco's chest, the familiar happy humming of the uncomfortable atmosphere of morning in the Malfoy Mansion, started to slowly drip away. If his mother had begun to talk, there was no way he could have heard, because all that he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ear drums and the words that he was mentally reading over on the front of the paper. They were not cohesive, more like oxy-morons, anyway, and therefore hard to comprehend, simple as they were.
No words had been spoken, Draco realized, those couple of minutes later, as he looked up from his full plate, which, on its own, suddenly seemed to be completely empty. His hunger had subsided. No words had been spoken, he corrected himself, by his own voice, nor his mother's. His father was waiting for a reaction, clearly, but seemed suddenly furious that the reaction was silence. Such news didn't take Draco a second to contemplate. His throat swelled up, and he clutched it with his right hand, unaware that his brain had moved it there. Even his blood seemed to be shaking, maybe his cells were rapidly vibrating off each other, and he felt cold, very cold, as he met the ice-fire silver eyes that were expectantly waiting.
Lucius Malfoy lowered the paper, face down, onto the table top, still greeted with silence, and when he spoke, it was with hesitation and worry rather than the annoyance he had been showing only moments before, "Draco?"
Draco pulled the cloth napkin up from his lap with his slim right fingertips. His left hand pushed his plate forward and away, causing it to collide with his tea cup, his water cup, and then his juice cup, followed by his fork flying off of his plate and hitting against a salt shaker, which, all-in-all, resulted in a very impromptu, yet fitting, miniature melody that filled the grand room all of the way up to the domed ceiling. The grace that had seen the dining room of the Malfoy estate, he knew, had probably just been lowered a couple of pegs. He dropped his napkin down on the table top, folded his hands together, with his elbows sitting on the top of the table, placed his lips to his intertwined hands, and closed his eyes. His own reaction was opposite of how he had always pictured it to be, and he could do nothing to stop it. His hands had moved, his rational hearing had stopped, and his heart had never pounded so loudly.
Narcissa rose from the table, after dropping her cloth napkin down, as well, beside her plate.
Draco's newly-opened silver eyes watched his mother excuse herself, silently.
"I must have walked into the wrong house," Lucius commented, loudly, to his friends, who were silent, too.
Walked into the wrong house? It was a good guess, Draco thought. He wished.
Before Draco knew what was happening, chairs were being summoned for his father's friends to all sit around the breakfast table. This, too, was something that had never been done. There had never been more than six people in their large private Dining Hall at one given time. Perhaps the time had passed more quickly than he had realized, watching all of this unfold before him.
This Lucius Malfoy, who had walked in, so proudly, with his shoulders held so straight, squared off, had been wearing a rare smile, a real smile. A smile with teeth, and why?
It was a few seconds later that Draco was captured by unmoving, narrowed, scarily suspicious eyes, "Draco," spoke the voice from the man who he knew to be his father. The voice sounded slightly different than it had ever sounded before, somewhat angry but somewhat unsure of that anger.
The excited talk in the room immediately faltered into hushed silence, once more, and Draco realized that their eyes had all settled upon him. He could not blink. He still could not move. He still could not understand the writing on the Daily Prophet, trying to somehow wake himself up, and having commented to himself at how lame it was that he was attempting to do so, but he hadn't wanted this to be real. Could it be real? It was likely real. Yes, it was likely real.
"I thought you'd like to be the first one I told." He paused. "Honestly, Draco, I expected quite a different reaction from you. I seem to remember you joking about seeing this day coming, with some glee, and now it's here and you don't have a word to say?"
Draco's eyes dropped back down onto his still emptily-full plate once he heard someone comment about how he might have been mentally celebrating, too overjoyed to be leaping out of his seat and, oh, pumping his fists in the air? A different reaction indeed, ha. Yes, this was different, as he could feel the very depth of his physical heart beginning to ail him. His eyes shot back, angrily, narrowed, to his father, when he opened his eyes. He needed to get away.
"Yes, good morning to you, too, father. You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen," he finally croaked out, in a voice that rasped and grumbled lowly, as if fighting for each syllable, finally giving acknowledgment to the guests whom he knew to be his father's acquaintances, ones damn well not good enough to have the honor of being in the private breakfast room.
He was standing, before he knew it, still holding his napkin. He pushed his chair back, stepped out from behind the table, and began to walk toward the doors that his father had burst in through, unaware that he was squeezing the life out of his napkin, twisting it with both hands and taking awkward, heavy steps.
Every sound at the table had faded, this time, completely.
Lucius stepped in front of his son, in front of the door, blocking his path to get to the doors.
Draco stopped, but he held his head high, "I think it'd be nice if you would step aside."
"I thought you would be thrilled, Draco! I know my sons are."
Draco didn't turn his attention toward the familiar voice at the table who had just spoken. Rather, he stared his father right on, eye-to-eye, being as they stood at the same height. With a leaner frame, Draco seemed smaller, but he wasn't. While his father was wearing one of his custom tailored cloaks, and notably similar couture robes underneath, to bulk up his appearance, all Draco wore, in contrast, was a pair of fine, tailored white trousers, that had a nice flow to them, and a buttery-mellow color vintage band T-shirt that he had picked up in Diagon Alley a few months prior. He was slim, lean, and was hardly dressed for company.
Lucius looked down, almost suddenly, "What have I told you about muggle clothing, Draco?"
Draco stepped forward, "That it's just as important as wizard clothing, or else I'd walk around naked, which is a horrible sight, because I'm awfully pale with this fine, aristocratic skin that you've given me, right? But I'd rather walk around naked than walk around without a soul to speak of, only smiling when my life's work, of seeing my "Master's" enemy dead, is complete," he returned without hesitation, without fear, defiant of his father's expectations, like Draco should have been jumping for joy at the news. He was damn sure he would be hearing about the news, anyway, for the next three years, every single day, and then, subsequently, every other day until he died. He was only just beginning to understand what this news was, because he had heard himself say it aloud. "That's some life you lead. Like I said, please excuse me while I go pretend not to realize that you're smiling, for the first time in months, over the murder of, God forbid, The-Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter. Great, I didn't particularly like the bastard, but I didn't hate him this much--in fact, I didn't hate him at all, especially after this year. Do you want me to run in circles? Cheer the news? Should I help you plan the celebrations? Would you like me to look into cakes for the occasion?" He tapped his own foot to the floor, to match his father's impatient tapping. "Well, goddamn, I don't know why I don't feel as happy as you seem, but I can only assume it's because I have a soul."
Oh, if only his schoolmates had heard him, but even if they had, it would have further driven them apart.
He was feeling too much emotion when it was too late.
With cold glare, too, to match his father's, he took a circular route around him, without another word, and set off for his room.
Draco knew that he had just done something that a son, in his social class, was never supposed to do publicly, or even at all, in a perfect world. Disrespecting his father in front of the other men was a very risky thing to do. Now, especially in this case, knowing what was at the center of his family's core, it was a very shaky risk to take; the Dark Arts, the Dark Lord, the dark life: The Three Darks, as Draco had referred to them as, when he'd only been five years old. He had never embraced them, fully, at least to the extent of what had been expected of him, especially by the age of seventeen. He had told his mother these things, expressed his hesitance, many times, but she had always told him he was never to speak of those things with his father, never to express distaste for these Three Darks. He wasn't to acknowledge them with disdain and doubt. He very well knew that if he went against his father, against his family name, he would have no one to turn to. No one, at all, in the entire world, and he wasn't a person who enjoyed loneliness.
The part that stung Draco, as he reached the doors, was that he had just done this to his father, for the first time, what his father had tried to never do to him. And why? Over what? Why hadn't his reaction been joy? This news had their world up in arms, in mourning, and he was sure it was that way even though he had only just heard the news. He knew that most families were probably assembled around their Wireless Networks, a charmed network of invisible satellites that existed up in space like the muggle satellites, clinging and hoping to hear about any new developments, quiet and sullen and unable to express their grief and fear.
Quite honestly, Draco was headed for his own quarters to do the same thing, and maybe while he wouldn't mourn like they would, he would deal with this in his own way. He just wasn't sure what this way was, just yet, and remembering that he wasn't the only one in his home who seemed to be upset by this news, in some way, he turned around, at the doors, to see that his father was turned toward him, with his back to the men at the table.
Lucius, for once, really, seemed to be uncertain of how to respond to something Draco had said to him.
Draco put his hand on the brass door-handle and turned it, "You should apologize to mother for the way you've been treating her."
Not waiting for a response, knowing he was pushing it way over the line, Draco opened the grand wooden doors, both of them, at the same time, and walked through them. He didn't make himself close them, as he was sure his father would do it, himself, while contemplating on how to best punish Draco in a very blatant or strangely wacky way, but that was the least of Draco's worries. His feet were leading him to the left of the doors, down the Grand Hall. His surroundings had always been beautiful to him, but today he screened them, no matter how rich, vibrant, dark, gothic, and so warm the material and belongings were.
These things were his home. Even when the material things changed in the home, it always had the same aura about it. He thought about these things, and he thought about every other little, pointless fact that would not allow him to focus on the words that he had spoken to his father, and those he had read off of the front page of the Prophet, from those big, glowing, throbbing letters of hopelessness, of shock and panic. Panic, of course, that Draco didn't know his fellow wizards were going to be able to deal with. Well, at least not the ones who gave a damn about Potter.
The last damn time he had seen that smarmy, tragic twit, he'd said, "Have a summer, Malfoy."
Have a summer, Malfoy; not have any specific kind of summer, just a summer in general.
Of course, he had only responded after Draco had been forced to tell him, "Summer, Potter; have one."
The sixth year of their infamous loathing dynasty had been harsh, intense, and cruel at times. It was the hardest year that Draco had ever been through, academically, emotionally, physically, and mentally. Every part of him had been tested, and he'd grown up in a lot of ways, and grown apart in others. Every day hard been a fight to make it through until the next. Outside of Hogwarts, a war had been raging, and within its walls, Draco had found himself straddling a line, a fence, he never had before, and he had struggled openly, much to the dismay of his Slytherin house-mates.
Parents of students in other houses had seemed to end up at St. Mungos everyday, and there had been deaths reported every morning by the Daily Prophet, to the surprise of the children of those men and women, and while, growing up, he had been prepared for this, he had never faced the human aspect of it until that very year, and while his friends had seemed slightly shaken, only at first, he had remained thoroughly shaken and somewhat disoriented through-out. There had been countless students that had dropped out of school due to depression and family issues, too, like having to take care of younger siblings because their parents had been killed in the war, and that had taken a toll on Draco's conscious, particularly. But, somehow, in some twist of Dumbledore's whacked brain, they had all ended up back at the school, and then some, often times having brought siblings, who were under the age of eleven, to temporarily live at the school, as well. Seeing tiny faces, in the courtyards, of kids without parents, some of those parents dead, no doubt, because of his own father, had really fucked with Draco's head.
It had been a strange year.
Every single person who had looked at Harry Potter, that year, had known he'd been falling apart, or had already fallen apart and was sewn magnificently together with a few measly strings of reliability, and of those people had been Draco. The sixth year was a year that Harry had been out of school, then back in school… and out of school, and then back in school. He'd miss classes, meals, and seemed to have never slept, which had always showed on his face, especially when he'd started to drop weight he hadn't really had to spare in the first place. He'd fought war, beside adults. Students, Draco had heard, had begged to be able to fight, fight for the world that was going to be theirs, but there had been an age limit. Of course, the only exception, as always, was Harry Potter, the grand Boy-Who-Lived.
Draco stopped in his tracks, thinking back to their last conversation, practically their most decent ever.
They had been standing in front of the Great Hall, together, on the teacher's platform, with the school watching on. It had been the awarding of the House Cup, which Gryffindor had tied with Slytherin over. Not a single Gryffindor had booed on that last night at Hogwarts; not a Slytherin had hissed, not a Ravenclaw had whispered, and not even a Hufflepuff had puffed. It hadn't been that kind of rivalry, that night, even between Draco and Harry.
Students had avoided them, that year, anyway, because of their tempers and moodiness, and even friends had faltered, it seemed, in both of their cases, at least that Draco could remember on his end or observe on Potter's.
Up until the middle of the school year, Harry and Draco had taken to dueling in the hallways. The dueling had gotten so out of hand that they had, honest to God, tried to kill each other in the hallways, multiple times. It had been common knowledge, by the second month in, that students just avoided certain hallways where Draco and Harry crossed paths. Yet, Draco had never made an attempt to avoid the Potter phenomenon. He had never made himself find a different route. Merlin only knew how many ways there were to get from one place to another at Hogwarts. But, at the same time, Potter had never tried to find another route to get to his classes, either, even when his friends had opted to not join him, anymore, and, in this, along with all of the other things that had changed at Hogwarts, and within Draco, something had been mended.
Though, that last night, all of those duels had faded into not-so-important memory, and they had shaken hands, firmly, for the first time ever, as young men.
Dumbledore, however, had seen them start to make movement for each other, and had stood up, as if alarmed, but Potter had only offered his hand, instead of muttering a curse, and Draco had known better than to not take it, so he had offered his back.
"Summer, Potter, have one," Draco mumbled, as if reliving the moment, his palms flying up to cover his eyes. He threw them away, still stopped in the middle of the hallway. His palms faced flat-down on his chest, as he brought himself to walk again, and his eyebrows were stitched so thoroughly that his head was beginning to ache. He had to get back to his bedroom as soon as he could, on foot; it was safest there, safe from the portraits of ancestors and furious fathers. Walking towards his room had always given him some sort of comfort. It would give him a bit more time to try to process the depth of the news, if… if that was at all possible.
It seemed that it was too deep to process, at least at that very moment, on that sunny June afternoon that Potter was, supposedly, not sharing with the rest of them. It was Sunny. It was… confusing. Shouldn't it have been raining? Storming? Lightning? Thundering angrily? The sun did not seem to fit the day.
Draco hurried down the family wing. Each door was closed but all of the windows were drawn open. There was sunlight streaming in down onto the cold wood of the floor, orange beams glowing warmly and looking inviting. It was false advertising. Even through his socks he could feel the bitter cold. The floor was usually bewitched with a warming charm, but, for some reason, the charm on such a day had been forgotten, or so it seemed. He hurried as fast as he could towards the stairs that led to the second floor of the manor. He needed to get to his bedroom, knowing that his own special edition of the Daily Prophet had probably arrived, as well. He always kept one of his bedroom windows open, even in winter, or when it was raining, for his owl and owl-post. His owl had never liked being shut out. He ever very much like Draco in that aspect.
When he was finally where he wanted to be, he sharply turned the door-handle on the dark wood of the bedroom door. He pushed the door open and walked in, kicking the door to a close behind him. For a long moment, Draco's five-foot, ten-inch frame stood stabilized. It had been such an automated action to run to his bedroom to get the answers he needed but now that he was there, he wasn't sure what he needed to ask or what he needed to seek. It was so automated that he hadn't had time to, or even let himself, fathom the thought of Harry Potter having actually been… murdered. Dead. Murdered dead, Harry Potter? It just didn't seem possible, especially for it to happen so abruptly, out of school, when Draco hadn't been prepared. He hadn't know there was a mission going on, and usually his father had always told him when something was going on in regards to Potter.
The bedroom that he had walked into opened up like the sun from the dark hallow ambience of the hallway that his bedroom was off of. The slate-hued dark green curtains of his large gothic windows were drawn back tightly; the house-elves knew his preferences all too well. The floor was the same dark wooden color as his door and the trimmings of his bedroom, but it didn't matter, because it was no match for the sun. Gigantic green rugs were thrown all over the floor of the room, though the wood was always polished and buffed, but he really did not enjoy cold floors on bare feet, and he didn't much prefer having to remember to put socks on when he was home, so he mostly jumped from rug to rug, now.
From the floor rose a wooden four-poster bed, black curtains twisted around each dark post and hanging over the top rafters. At night, he usually left them as they were. But, sometimes, when he needed extra darkness to put him to sleep, he would release the black velvet so it could drape all around his queen-sized bed. His bed was the centerpiece of his room, because it was where he spent most of his time when he was home. He liked to lounge on his bed, instead of his couches, and read, or rest, or look out his windows in search for something to do when mid-summer rolled around and all of the wonderful activities had become boring and dull.
The room, itself, was extremely large, nearly half the size of Hogwarts' Great Hall, all-in-all. The ceiling rose into an exquisitely carved dome where gorgeous scenes were painted in colors that blended with the wood. The wood came down and meshed with dark stone walls and the furniture. His room had always been his favorite room of the house. It was less fancy than every other room, more rustic and less put-together. It was real in it's beauty. It was natural, and it looked out over the beautiful gardens of the Malfoy estate which seemed to disappear into the forest that surrounded the property.
Something finally caught his attention by catching his eye; sitting on his open windowsill was a thick roll of familiar parchment, shadows from the trees outside waving across it in a soothing way, as if blocking it from the sun for Draco's sake, to make this easier to digest. He sighed.
Draco soon had The Prophet in his hands, and he walked to his bed, with frustrated eyes, as he untied the leather string that was keeping the paper enclosed. Sitting down on the end of his bed, the paper finally fell open in his hands, and the news was, once again, shining up against his eyes and reflecting in them. The words were less distracting than the picture of Potter that adorned the front page. It was such a glowing picture, with innocent eyes and a chirpy smile. Bastard. Draco could hate Potter all he wanted, but that damn Potter-twit dying hit him like a ton of bricks falling from the sky. He didn't feel remotely triumphant with this news, such as his father, and probably every wizard in every family that his own family was intertwined with, did. He felt a sense of foreboding, and even, wait for it... deep-seated, moon-crowing sorrow. Sorrow over Harry Potter; it only figured.
Draco stood up, abruptly, and tossed the paper behind him so it landed on his bed, "Shit." His hands grasped the top of his head before he calmed himself and combed his fingers back through his hair, as he could touch it and make sense of it. He liked things that were easy. "What is wrong with me?"
Light taps on the outside of his door interrupted his sudden pacing and the hold his teeth had on his bottom lip, "Draco, it's mum. May I come in?"
"Yes," he quietly tossed in the direction of his bedroom door. His pacing stopped, completely, and he resisted chewing on his lower lip in anxiety, letting it go. If Potter was really gone, there would be no more Hogwarts, would there be? If Harry Potter was dead, and Voldemort had succeeded in penetrating Albus Dumbledore's safety precautions, why would anyone send their children back to the school? No, no, he told himself, suddenly. "Hogwarts is the safest place to be, period." He couldn't imagine it any other way, and he suddenly did not want to try.
Others would probably argue that Draco was standing on the one property that was actually the safest place to be, right then.
Narcissa Malfoy laughed with a strangled, though not unfamiliar, warmth, after she closed the door, "Are you feeling okay?" Her son hadn't been himself since he had come home for break. Every summer he came back a little more mature than he had been when he had left, but when he had come home, last, though he still maintained the air about him, he had more than seemed different. He was more reserved. He seemed more content. He seemed to like a lot of things that he would never dare let his parents know, and he expected his own mother not to notice, and she did laugh to herself at the thought. His clothes around the house were no longer robes or dark trousers and button-ups, as they had been every year of his life growing up. He had taken to wearing muggle clothing, but no robes—not at all, ever. He no longer even wore the hats from Paris that he had always loved, though they were situated on one of his walls in a display of some sort of art piece. He didn't even come home from his Diagon Alley trips with expensive trinkets, but rather with handful after handful of magical bracelets he had purchased for the LIVEMUSICQUIDDITCHSEX program that had risen up over the year by young wizards. It promoted safe sex in their new world, aimed at the magical youth, with recreational programs at every corner of Diagon Alley, most of which had to do with music, charity, and Quidditch.
It provided a safe group to be involved with, so the youth didn't run into the "wrong" kind of people.
Narcissa hadn't brought up the fact that their family was exactly the type that those groups were trying to avoid, in the first place, but, rather, she had supported Draco when she'd first found out, after a bit of thought on how to approach the situation. Draco was his own man, now, and he was trying to make it known while not shouting it from the rooftops.
Draco had heard the amusement in his mother's question, so he cast a glance in her direction with dead eyes. He didn't lie to her; she knew he was going through some... things. He had been raised in a different generation than his father had been, which caused a lot of petty bickering matches between the two of them that his mother had, on more than twenty occasions, had to referee. It presented great turmoil in the house, and Draco knew it was only going to get more intense. Hundred-fold, maybe, after today. He and his father had very different views, it seemed, that separated them more and more as the days went by. His mother, however, had never taken to penalizing him for how he felt. Anyone else could think what they wanted to, they could even think that they knew his mother, but no one knew his mother. No one adored her as much as Draco did. He had always been his mother's son, much to his father's disapproval.
Draco shrugged, his fingertips sliding into his pockets, slowly, while his eyes focused on his bare toes, "It's hard to believe, that's all. Potter, dead?" He shook his head. "It doesn't sound right in the slightest. It doesn't make sense. It's like an oxymoron."
"I find it a little hard to fathom, myself," commented his mother, who held up her own copy of the Prophet, pulling it from under her arm.
"Have you read the details yet?" He asked, of the article, because he hadn't, and she would tell him if he was ready or not to read it.
"No. No, I haven't. I actually had some other news for you this morning, as well. I was going to tell you at breakfast."
Draco was just staring out his open window, leaning over the wooden windowsill of his mini-tower, "Other news?"
"Do you remember Judas Cliffdale, Draco?"
Draco half-turned at the mention of the name. The last name "Cliffdale" was known to every wizard in the world. They were one of the most powerful, if not the most powerful, most private, secretive families that existed in the wizard world. His mother didn't seem to need to hear his answer because the answer was obvious to the both of them. How could he have ever forgotten Judas Cliffdale? It seemed nearly impossible, too, "We used to play when we were little, right? Before his father turned against Voldemort and went into solitary study of the Arts?" He looked over at his mother from the gardens below his window, slightly perplexed with the topic of discussion. "I don't even remember him, really."
Narcissa tried not to roll her eyes at Draco's lie, but she played along, "Good, then you won't have any preconceptions. He's going to be staying with us for the summer holiday."
Draco fully turned around, bewildered, "What? The whole summer? Why?"
Narcissa sighed, still standing in the doorway. She seemed very uncomfortable, now that Draco was paying for attention, "Because of an unfortunate circumstance, really. His mother, a dear woman, a dear old friend... she passed away this morning." At the look on Draco's face, that of confused curiosity as to her friendship with one of the most powerful women in their world, she stepped forward, and closed the door behind her, giving him a look as if to not question it. "Maureen Cliffdale, you've heard of her?"
"Of course," Draco responded, blandly, absorbing the story so far. His elbows rested back onto the warm granite of his open window. Draco had heard his mother mention Maureen from time to time, and she always did speak highly of the woman. But, as far as recent contact between his mother and Maureen Cliffdale, he hadn't heard a word of it, much like mention of himself and Judas Cliffdale; they had lost contact for a reason. It wasn't like Maureen would run with the aristocratic society that his own mother did, anyway. The Cliffdales looked down upon Voldemort and his supporters, down upon the Malfoy family.
"When we attended Hogwarts, Maureen was in Hufflepuff with me."
"Mother, you don't have to mention Hufflepuff every single time you bring up Hogwarts," Draco snipped at her, pushing himself away from the window, his attention still on his mother, who glanced in his direction with warning in her eyes. He snatched up a candy that was resting in a pool of other candies in a crystal candy-dish he had been given when he was a child. It sat on his coffee table, amongst the plush furniture that surrounded it. "Right, go on. Judas, Maureen, Hufflepuff isn't as bad as I think it is, blah, etceteras... continue."
"You'll learn one of these days, Draco. You'd think with all of the growing up that you've done, this year especially, your mind would be open enough to accept that the Hufflepuff stereotype doesn't exist in every case," she chided him, as he sat down, with his lean frame, gracefully, in the center of one of his couches. She walked up behind the couch opposite of him and bowed her head for him to be silent when he went to open his mouth to respond. "Maureen was my best friend, actually."
Draco stopped opening the folds of the golden candy-wrapper that had been crinkling under the explanation of his mother. His eyes squinted, and he glanced up from the candy, having a true moment full of questioning obscenities in his head, "Wait a second, Maureen? The Hufflepuff Maureen, that… was Maureen Cliffdale?" He was astounded, and he felt his face flinch up in a "what in the bloody hell!" kind of expression before he could stop himself.
Narcissa kind of chuckled at his expression, too, "Careful with your expressions; you have your father's wrinkling forehead. What have I told you?"
"Mother," Draco sighed, with an annoyed tone, while he was still contemplating the masses of new information he had received that morning. He wasn't doing to well with any of it. It was like when he was trying to study and he read the same line twenty times and still didn't understand or really pay attention to what he had just read and couldn't, for the life of him, recite the information twenty seconds later. He didn't quite grasp any of it. "I've told you on multiple occasions that it's impossible for a face to get randomly stuck in unflattering expressions, and I don't want to talk about the father I get my wrinkling forehead from, right now. I can only take so much this morning." He looked at her. She gave a soft nod, digressing.
"I understand that, but you're a wizard, Draco. Nothing is impossible. I would have stuck your face in those expressions for punishment, but you were a precious little boy, and no one wanted to see your angry faces. Merlin knows we've seen more of them then we would have liked to," she responded, pointedly, at him, as she pulled her wand out. She extended her right arm up into the air beside her, and then flicked her wrist at the space in front of her. A very unflattering projection of Draco, as a child, appeared. He was throwing a fit, clearly.
Draco immediately groaned, "I get it, spare me the trip down memory lane."
Narcissa sighed, almost disappointedly, her eyes fond of the small little boy, of about five, scrunching his face up in disdain over a piece of cantaloupe. The opaque mini-Draco tossed the piece of fruit at his father, then, across the small table they were sitting at, and an orange stain appeared on Lucius's expensive robe. But Lucius only laughed and pressed a small kiss on Draco's head. Her eyes shifted over to her son, who, too, was examining the picture with some sort of amazement, "We all change, Draco. Your father is no exception."
The picture burst, like the bubble of a memory it was. The concentration that Draco had held on the somewhat transparent image had faded away. He was still sitting on the couch, because he was still interested in hearing all about Maureen Cliffdale and why Judas Cliffdale was going to be staying with them. The obvious bewilderment was that Maureen Cliffdale, unless by secret correspondence, never spoke with his mother, and vice versa. With all of those years having passed between them, why, of all people, would it be her choice to have Judas Cliffdale stay with the Malfoy family? It was absurd.
"Maureen was the first and last true friend I ever made at Hogwarts. Like you, I had always turned up my nose to Hufflepuff when I was growing up. All of my friends were from Slytherin, except for the exception of two in Ravenclaw, and one very cunning Gryffindor. I've never told you this, because I know you've always looked down upon the Hufflepuff house, and you didn't want to hear it, but... when I was sorted into Hufflepuff, Draco, every person I knew, every single one of them, abandoned me," she explained, as she sat down across from him.
"I hadn't a friend in the world until the end of my first year. The other kids in Hufflepuff didn't talk to me, because I had alienated so many of them, had insulted them and their families growing up. Some thought I was just the meanest thing in the world. I had some girls who I said hello to in the mornings, and I sat with a group of them during the meals, but they never talked to me. But Maureen had never been mean. She had always been sweet. She had always somehow included me in what she was doing, but she never did it directly. She was smart, because we both knew that I had been a snarky little thing, much like you, when I was around most people. But, at the end of the year--sure, I'll have one of those--no, the chocolate kind... yes, thank-you, darling."
The way his mother was speaking about Maureen was so candid and so personal. Her voice was lowered, as if she was trying to make sure no one else but him was going to hear. She wasn't whispering, but she definitely wasn't making it an announcement or speaking at the tone she usually did. She fell silent, as she twirled the silver wrapping off of a chocolate candy that Draco had offered out to her, after seeing her eye the candy dish. His favorite candies were also his mother's favorites, being that she had introduced them to him when he was a little boy.
"Sorry, Draco, I'm sure you're not too fond of hearing your mother's old school stories."
Draco's eyes lifted up from his hands, "No, I enjoy it. You know, mother, you've never told me very much about your life at Hogwarts. I've heard stories about before it, and about after it, but never during, not really, except for when you met... father." He thought back on the story of their first encounter. His father had been a complete asshole to her, and she had cursed him under her breath and thrown a dirt ball at him, instead of a spell, and then told him that he was just as dirty as any mudblood at the school, because of his personality. Draco had found that story particularly hysterical as a boy.
"Yes, well, they're only stories," she added, quietly, of what he was talking about. "Maureen started to speak to me, directly, at the end of the year. She'd ask me questions, about what color nail spell I liked, and if I'd like to talk about boys. Girlish things, of course. But, that wasn't what made us friends. When we began to speak, and the friendship was open, we found we had many things in common. Our families, our society status, how I wanted to be a Slytherin, and she wanted to be a Gryffindor. We had common ground, but we were also so different in our ideals, which was what made us friends, because we were willing to listen to each other... we fell out of touch about five years after school ended. She told me that she didn't approve of my choice of how to live. At the time, she had also been a supporter, along with Gregarold. At the time, he was in his forties, and we were in our early twenties. She had just begun dating him. Together, they found a bond that was more powerful than your father's loyalties, stronger than her loyalty, perhaps, to me. They left, and I thought we'd speak again. A couple of years later, I had you, and she had Judas. You two played together nearly every minute for a whole summer... and then... well, we had a small falling out, the night before they left. I thought we'd talk, again, but we never did."
"I'm sorry, mother," Draco expressed, seeing that she wasn't sure if she wanted to say more. "You speak so highly of her. She must have been wonderful." His voice soothed, softly, as he leaned over his knees, with his hands folded together under his chin. Watching his mother speak of Maureen was heartwarming. She seemed to be so content when her eyes were staring somewhere with the concentration of her old friend. He knew that his mother hadn't ever had a real friend in her society circle. She had her girlfriends, but not a real friend, not one like this Maureen seemed to have been.
"She was," Narcissa spoke, her eyes downtrodden with memory and her voice thick with emotion.
Draco reached over and patted his mother's hand, "Where does Judas come into this, then, mother?"
Narcissa cleared her throat, and took in a deep breath, as if embarrassed of showing her emotions in front of her son. Lucius had tried to raise Draco to be the kind of man that didn't care, or didn't show that he cared, about a woman's emotions, even his reaction to his own mother's tears. But, of course, Lucius had not succeeded, though he tried, because there had been more powerful forces in Draco's youth that had swayed him in the opposite direction. Draco, while always being Lucius's social pride, had always been a very loud, opposing voice to his father's words in their own home. He had always had a mind of his own. Plus, he was her son, and she had raised him right, to show emotion, and care for women more than he cared for men.
"It may sound silly to you, but I know it's what she would have wanted."
Draco tilted his head, his eyes squinting up in frustration with his mother's lack of explanation, "Mother, please! It's only you and I! Tell me more!"
"Okay!" Narcissa laughed, and then patted her hand over her son's, fondly. She lifted it and kissed it, gently, before returning it to him, as she stood up. She was the kind of person who needed to walk to concentrate on what she wanted to say, when it was something important to her, something that needed a great deal of consideration. "Maureen and I promised each other, when we were in our seventh year, that we would always be each other's soul-mate. So, we, of course, swore to each other that, if we had children, if something happened to one of us, the other would take the children of the unfortunate one of us into her home. When you and Judas were children, we still swore it. And we made a pact. I swore to that pact, and I have no intention of going back on my word now. I know that Maureen would have taken you in if something would have happened to your father and I, even after our falling out. Granted, we haven't spoken, but we have sent Christmas cards and such, and though it doesn't seem like much, it was enough that we both knew the other was still okay, still cared."
Draco stared at her, in awe, "What about his father? Gregarold?"
Narcissa laughed, "Gregarold contacted me, Draco. It's not safe for Judas to be with his family right now."
Right, "And why not?" Draco immediately intervened. He stood up, too, and followed her in the direction of his door. She couldn't leave him without the answers. Judas would have been most protected when he was with his father! That man was practically always hidden away, devising new evil dark magic that wizards paid millions of galleons for, anyway! Why would Judas opt to stay with a family he didn't even know? "I don't understand, mother."
"Draco, Maureen and Judas's brother, Alexander, were murdered."
Draco stopped in his tracks, feeling a whole new level of sorrow wash over him. Even if he didn't know Judas as an adult, he could feel sympathy and sorrow for a man losing his brother and his mother. His hand placed over his chest, and he could feel his eyes begin to dull over. He took a step backward and slightly turned in the direction of his large windows, again, blinking, "Murdered?"
"Murdered, Draco," Narcissa assured, gently. "Gregarold contacted me first thing this morning, before the papers came out. The murderers were after him, not Maureen, and not Alex, and not Judas. The three were at the family home, and Gregarold had left on a secret trip. Judas witnessed the whole thing under an Invisibility Cloak. When Gregarold called, Alex's condition was unknown, but Maureen's death had been confirmed by the Ministry. Gregarold wants Judas in a safer place right away. This is the safest place for him right now, away from the world he's been in and into ours."
Speechless, Draco turned his attention back onto his mother. Even worse than having a mother and brother being murdered was witnessing the murder. Because he could not find words to express any feelings about the situation, which might have been a blessing, he stepped back toward his mother, with his hands outstretched for her. When he got to her, he wrapped his thin, lean arms tightly around her shoulders, wrapping her upper shoulders in a tight hug. She had lost the one true friend that she had, supposedly, ever had, and had never made amends with. He could not imagine.
"He will be very fragile, Draco, and I do need you to be a lovely, cordial host to him at all times."
Draco was eventually let from his mother's tight hug, and vice versa, as she spoke. He could do nothing but feel pain for the whole Cliffdale family. It was huge news, but would obviously take the back-seat to Potter's death. Front-page news, on any other day. What was the world coming to? Suddenly flabbergasted by all of the news that happened in one night, he stepped backwards, again, while his mother opened the door. He walked towards his windows, once more, with long, powerful strides, "It's maddening, isn't it? Potter, getting the Front Page. Who cares if he's dead, anyway? The Cliffdales were far more powerful, far more prominent, far more--"
"Far more like the Potters than you'll ever know, Draco. And, don't fool yourself, because you're surely not fooling me. I'm your mother, you fool; it is impossible for you to deceive me into oblivion. I know you were fond of him, in ways. Reflect, love. It's healthy, too." Draco knew she was calling him a fool with affection, and smiling by the sound of it. Truth was, she was the only person who could ever get away with saying something so ridiculously true to him. "You do care, and you don't have to hide from this, Draco. It would not be healthy for you to feel anything but sorrow."
Draco turned his head, slightly, to respond, but the door had already closed, leaving the words to settle in. Disliking that she had gotten the last word, but glad that she had, especially about something like she had, he went back to facing his windows. He leaned into one, staring back out into the beautiful gardens, which had lost their luster due to the various questions and sadness mulling around in his head and in his heart. He looked over his shoulder, at the old muggle record-player that was bewitched with his Wireless Network, warily, where he would find all of the day's headlines and news. His nose twitched at the heat he suddenly felt flush over it, and he clutched the back of his head in distraught frustration, and then folded his hands over the back of his neck and closed his eyes as he tilted his head back, "I don't want to know what happened to you, Potter. I don't want to know how they did it. I don't want to know. You don't want to know, Draco. I don't want to know. I shouldn't care. I shouldn't listen. I don't want to know." Who was he fooling? He was the only one in the room!
Draco pulled the heavy curtains across all of his windows, one-by-one, each which hung from the tall tower-ceilings, making one round of his room. When the room was surrounded in darkness from all but one window, far across the room opposite of his bed, he fell down onto his haven of comfort, distressed and fighting something that resembled pain he had never struggled with or experienced to this degree over something like this, not to mention the giant, heart-burn like knot that had uncomfortable lodged itself into the base of his chest and was making its way up, slowly, hampering his breath. In the process, he pulled his wand out of his pocket and pointed it at the record player, giving in to his curiosity. He muttered "on," before his hand fell right back down beside his face, which was buried in the covers, knowing he wasn't going to be up to facing the day for a few hours after listening to the reports he knew he would discover.
The startling murder of Harry Potter, this morning, marks the end of our world as we know it, Jim, and I mean that with as few dramatics as I've ever said anything. Agree?
Draco sighed, loudly, miserably, and clutched the back of his head at the commentary and the emotion he could even hear from a stranger to both himself and Harry Potter. Yes, this news, today, was no good. It was no good at all, "What'd they do to you, Potter? What?