Author's note: May Jo Rowling forgive me . . .
There's many reasons why a person does something.
In the case of the most despicable act committed by Lucias Malfoy, it was no other reason then arrogance.
Pride always goeth before a fall.
It happened on a Tuesday. To some, the exact day may seem irrelevant, and perhaps it is, But then, Tuesday is a fairly irrelevant day to begin with. It marks no point in the ordinary week to look forward to, nor does it figure very strongly in any sort of 'ology. In fact, the only real purpose of Tuesday was to have something in between Monday and the middle of the week.
Certainly, it was an ordinary day. One that dawned overcast and cool, a brisk breeze that sneaked through the thick walls of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry to chill the bare skin.
It ceased to be ordinary in that most foreboding of classes; Potions.
Under the baneful eye of Professor Severus Snape, students learned how to combine the stuff of the world into liquid form to do things. Snape often said that Potions was far more elegant magic then the clumsiness of the wand. That was sort of true, even the students who hated him had to admit that there was a certain beauty in the simmering boil of a cauldron holding the liquid magic.
But alas, Draco Malfoy wasn't one of them. The self-styled "Slytherin Prince", Hogwarts' current Head Boy, and in his mind, God among all Hogwarts students, was, on this Tuesday, bored out of his divine mind.
They were making what Snape called Chaos Potions today. Highly advanced, were Chaos Potions, oh yes. In many ways, far more dangerous then wand work, were Chaos Potions. Dangerous in that no one, not even the maker, could precisely predict what a Chaos Potion could or would, do. The power of a potion could only be directed, not controlled. Therefore, it must be mixed, very, very, precisely.
"ninety-eight, ninety-eight and a half," Draco counted under his breath, and then reversed direction of his stirring. Draco did everything the best. He was a Malfoy, after all. But that didn't change the fact that this precise stirring was so mind-numbingly easy that even Longbottom could do it.
Couldn't have that, after all.
A quick glance insured Snape wasn't looking in his direction. Not that Draco had anything to fear, Snape could care less what misfortunes befall the Gryffindors. But there was the Principal of the thing.
Humming tunelessly to himself, Draco finished the precise stirring and glanced at his watch. He now had to wait precisely fifteen and three-eighths of a seconds before using his wand to mix the potion forty-two times in a cross-shaped motion using only his left hand. He removed the ladle from the cauldron and set it down on the table with his right, muttering a slight curse as some of the wetness from the potion got on his finger, even as he took his wand out.
He glanced at his watch. Ten seconds even to go. Humming the same tuneless tune, he removed a Hag's claw from the ingredients tray and set it on his middle finger, just behind the nail, before resting his thumb on the nail. There, a catapult. Then he kicked Crabbe in the leg.
When the older boy looked at him, Draco jerked his head to the side, indicating that the bigger boy should get out of the way.
Crabbe didn't move, instead staring at him, his pig-like eyes, rounded.
"What's the matter with you?" Draco hissed. "Move your head, you stupid git!"
"Y-your face," Crabbe said, all the color leaving it. "Your face . . ."
"What about my--" Draco started to ask and then stopped, as every nerve ending in his body seemed to explode as the world vanished in bright white light.
When the light faded, he was sitting in a bed, his heart pounding against his ribs. "God, he whispered, pressing his hand to his chest in an effort to slow down his heart rate.
His chest . . .?
Draco felt his chest. There was something large, round and not unpleasantly squishy there. Something large, round and not unpleasantly squishy, Draco was sure, should not be there. Last he checked, he did not have anything, large, round, and not unpleasantly squishy on his chest.
He checked the rest of his chest. There were two large, round, not unpleasantly squishy things on his chest. Draco swallowed, looked inside his shirt, and screamed. Then he checked his crotch, screamed again, and passed out.
When Draco awoke, he was staring up at his mother's face which wore what for Narcissa Malfoy, was an expression of concern.
"As you can see, Mrs. Malfoy," Dumbledore's voice said softly, "the Chaos Potion has reversed . . . certain effects."
"I have eyes, Dumbledore," Narcissia snapped. "Lucias?"
"In Azkaban, of course. The Law is quite firm." Dumbledore paused for a moment. "I'm afraid his . . . fellows will simply have to muddle along without him. His Superior will no doubt, be deeply disappointed."
"I doubt that," Narcissa replied. "You know him as well as I do."
"To my shame," Dumbledore replied. Draco heard the swishing of robes. "I'm sure you and young Miss Malfoy have much to speak of."
The doors to the medical wing opened and then closed again.
Draco lay there for a moment, staring at his Mother's face and then something Dumbledore said registered. "Miss?" he exclaimed sitting upright in bed and then blinking as he felt his chest move under his shirt. "I'm not a miss! I-I-I can't be!"
Narcissa slapped him. "Shut up, Draco!" she snapped. "Shut up for once in your life and listen."
Draco shut up.
"Very good," Narcissa said. "You were born a girl. Lucias, may the Dementors choke on his filthy soul, couldn't accept that. Bad enough you were female, leaving him without a son and proper heir."
"I'd hardly call that a mistake," Draco said and got out of bed. A kind of curious detachment had come over her--him. He was a him, damnit-- and the whole thing was rather amusing.
Wandering around nearby beds, he found a mirror lying on the table and examined his reflection. Really, the only thing different was his hair. It was now black and perhaps his face resembled his mother's a bit more. All in all, he still was rather princelike. Yeah. He tilted his head this way and that. There was still a certain royal air to his face. "Still a Prince, Draco," he said to himself as he turned back to his mother and then frowned down at his chest. "A Reduction Charm is definitely in order," he muttered. How did women deal with these things without going mad? "So Father bewitched me so he could satisfy his ego."
"Your Father had little to do with," Narcissia said. "Lucias isn't your father."
Draco sat down on a bed, hysterical laughter boiling forth from his lips. "Mother," he drawled. "You're a slut. So whose my daddy? Not some Muggle, I should hope."
"As if I would allow some Muggle to even lay eyes on me," Narcissia sneered. "Your true Father is Voldemort. He once desired a woman's touch and I was more then happy to oblige. Lucias tended fail expectations in that area anyway."
Draco's mouth fell open, all thought vanishing from his brain. Vaguely, he was aware of Dumbledore returning and then leaving with his Mother. Of Madam Pomfrey helping him out of his school robes and into pajamas before being helped into bed and the lights dimming. But sleep didn't come. As he lay there in the dark, Draco's brain began working again.
What was he? Not a boy, not a Malfoy, not even wizardry. What did he have? Even his mother simply regarded him as a by product of her loyalty to the Dark Lord. With that thought, Draco Malfoy died and all that was left, was to dispose of the body.
Carefully, the thing, which moments ago had been Draco Malfoy (which we will refer to as Draco for narration purposes until further notice) removed the pajamas and donned proper robes, which had been laid on a chair. Then, with precise, smart steps, the "funeral" began.
Out the medical wing door, down the hall. Up the stairs, mind the trick step! Down more corridors and up the stairs, there we go and then onto the open air of the Astronomy tower. There we are, deep breath. Good night. All right, time to die. Up we go. There we are. Quite a way down, aint it? Still, shouldn't be too long. Right. Off we go and --
"You don't want to be doing that," a voice said.
Draco froze, one leg extended into the open space. What an absurd thing. Of course he wanted to be doing this. Really, a person wants to be jumping off a tower, they should be able to jump off a tower. Right, then. Off we --
"Moron," the voice said again. Draco put his foot down. This was absurd. No one, not even voices, called him a Moron.
"Who said that?" he demanded and started to turn around.
"Don't turn," the voice said. "One good Wind Charm and over the edge you go."
"Which is what I was about to do anyway," Draco snapped. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just turn around and see who you are."
"You don't know who I am," the voice replied with a chuckle. "And you'll die without knowing that." The tone became almost mocking. "The Slytherin Prince, dead without even knowing who saw him die. Something to take with you to wherever you're going and spend the rest of eternity wondering about."
Draco froze. The voice was right. He did want to know who the hell had the temerity to interrupt a perfectly good suicide.
"That's better," the voice said, sounding almost relieved. "Now jump backwards off of there." Draco did as he was bid, muttering a curse and pressing a hand to his chest as he did so. Damnit, these things hurt, bouncing around like they did. "No turning around, now." He heard a several softly retreating footsteps.
"Why can't I turn around yet?" Draco demanded. "I'm off the bloody wall."
"Because I don't trust you yet, Draco. I want you alive and intact and so long as you don't know who I am, I know you'll try your damnedest to stay that way. Your Slytherin Curiosity won't let you do less."
Draco scowled. This person knew him, and far to well for his liking. "I can just ask Parkinson. She rules the gossip chains in Slytherin and she'll tell me anything. You won't be able to get back into the dorms without her finding out."
"I suppose that would be a problem . . . if I was a Slytherin."
"What?" Draco gasped. "Not . . . not a Slytherin?" The voice made a noise of confirmation. "Well what the bloody hell are you then? Hufflepuff?"
"Gryffindor," the voice replied and there was the sound of shoes going down stone steps as his unknown savior left the tower roof. Draco just stood there, stunned.
The sun was beginning to rise when Draco finally stirred. A Slytherin saved by a Gryffindor. The irony was overwhelming and he could almost admire the skill in which they had manipulated him into staying alive. He leaned on the wall and stared out at the grounds. He looked down at the ground far below. It didn't seem as inviting as it had when he'd first come up here.
He looked back at the sunrise and frowned. Where do you go from here, Old Sod? He thought about that and then his eyes narrowed. He wasn't a Malfoy, that was for damn sure. He wanted little to do with a father who would change a child into something else for ego's sake and his mother . . . he sighed. Was his mother really that much better?
No, probably not. Well he certainly wasn't about to go running to Potter and his friends, God knew they'd just love that. The Syltherin Prince turning to a . . . he frowned. That's right, he was still a Slytherin.
Not that that was much of a comfort; Crabbe and Goyle were Slytherins as well. So what was left? He thought about that, watching the shadows of trees change as the sun rose higher. His eyes fell on one particular tree and half remembered tales from the Irish nanny who had raised him surfaced in his mind.
He thought about those tales, about the Malfoys, about Voldemort, Potter, the Ministry, Dumbledore and other things. His thoughts were in chaos and . . . a new idea arrived and was followed by a smile.
Sure. Why the hell not? The whole damn magic community was hovering on the edge while Dumbledore and Voldemort dueled and Potter angsted about his past. One good swift kick in the arse and over the side it goes, kicking and screaming while he . . . no, she, waved bye bye and laughed.
At that moment, there were footsteps on the stairs. "Ah, Draco," Dumbledore said. "I thought perhaps that you were here."
"Draco's dead," was the reply. "It was a rather noble death. Very quick." She turned and faced the Headmaster. With him was Snape, Narcissia, McGonagall and Pomfrey.
"I see," Dumbledore said gravely, studying the young girl through his half-moon glasses. "And you are?"
"Rowan," she replied, removing the Head Boy pin from her robes and tossing it to land at Dumbledore's feet. "Jack Rowan."
"Quit being so damned melodramatic, Draco" Narcissia snapped, snatching the pin from Dumbledore's hand and striding forward as she reached for Jack's arm. "You're not AH!"
Moving to fast to be seen, Jack's arm had snapped out, grabbed Narcissia's wrist and twisted until the older woman had fallen to her knees with a whimper of pain. Slowly, Jack turned her head and met Narcissia's eyes. "Touch me again," Jack said softly. "And I'll make Voldemort look like Mother Teresa in comparison." She twisted harder and Narcissa cried out.
"Five points from Slytherin, Miss Rowan," Dumbledore said softly. "Violence is never acceptable for violence's sake." He looked down at Narcissia. "No matter how justified."
"Yes, sir," Jack replied, and let go, her tone just shy of disrespect.
If Dumbledore heard the tone, he gave no sign. "If you would, Miss Rowan, please accompany Madam Pomfrey back to the medical wing for one last exam and then Professor Snape will escort you back to your House Dorm. Under the circumstances, you are excused from classes for the day."
"Fine by me," Jack replied. She indicated her chest. "I want these things reduced anyway." She pushed past Snape and headed down the stairs.
Today was the first day of the rest of her life . . . they wouldn't know what hit them.
