Goyle was looking at him with concern on his piggy features. "Are you OK?"
Draco wasn't in the mood for that.
"Of course I'm OK," he snapped. He forced himself to move, he hadn't been looking forward to coming home at all these holidays; not even though it meant escaping the company of Goyle. Crabbe had been posted home a few weeks earlier in the form of a (very angry) frog. His mother had kissed him better straight away but he was still convalescing, which meant Draco and Goyle had been spending far too much time together-- in Draco's opinion anyway.
He heaved a sigh. Goyle heaved both their trunks, and they headed together into Muggle country.
He hated being on Muggle territory. There were so many strange people in weird clothes: many of them carried or were hooked up to Muggle machinery which beeped and tinkled, or made strange noises in their ears. There were bright lights advertising mysterious products-- everything was somehow uglier than it had to be. Draco averted his eyes and concentrated on scanning the crowd for his mother.
She was standing in conversation with a hefty thickshouldered woman whom Draco could have identified as Goyle's mother even if he'd never seen her before. Helena Malfoy was a pretty woman with long shining dark hair. It was an unusual combination with her skin as pale as Draco's own; normally it made her look very striking and regal but today she seemed careworn and looked older than usual. When she saw Draco she broke off the coversation, ran to him and wrapped him in a dramatic hug.
Draco wriggled out of her embrace and grinned up at her. "C'mon Mother, I've only been gone a few months. Anyone would think I'd been missing at sea or something, the way you go on." Normally he felt embarrassed by this kind of demonsrativeness, but here and now he was secretly glad of all the comfort he could get. His mother didn't seem to take his teasing too well though; she went suddenly cold on him and said in a businesslike voice: "To the car then Draco" They said goodbye to Goyle and Mrs Goyle-- Draco felt very relieved-- and soon were safelly ensconced in the chauffeur-driven limousine, heading north to Malfoy Manor.
# # #
Malfoy Manor was a dark old house which had seen many terrible sights. It was very fond of Draco though and always made an effort to have friendly welcoming light shining in the windows when it felt him coming. Unfortunately its appearance was against it; some houses just aren't built to look friendly and welcoming, and Malfoy Manor was one of them. It loomed forbiddingly against the barren moorland which surrounded it. Its shape was tall and thin; there were disturbing carvings over the door. Although usually invisible to Muggle eyes, it was one of those houses that seemed designed to show up in a flask of lightning during a thunderstorm. Wizarding rumour even held it to be the basis for Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights-- a former Malfoy had supposedly been the original for Heathcliff, the hero/villain of the story. Draco didn't know any of this; he wasn't interested in Muggle literature. He just thought of the Manor as home; and as it swung open its front door to greet him he managed briefly to forget all his troubles and feel almost glad to be back.
"Father! I'm home! How are you..." Draco raced into the main drawing-room only to find it in semi-darkness. A group of men -- maybe women as well, he couldn't see their faces-- was sitting there, and they were talking in the hushed urgent tones of conspirators.
As soon as Draco burst in, silence fell. "Get out!" snapped Lucius Malfoy, irritated. Then he seemed to remember something. "Oh-- welcome home, Draco," he added. But Draco had already withdrawn and shut the door. "Sorry about that," apologised Lucius Malfoy looking round the room. "My son. He goes to Hogwarts." He emphasised the last part; a heavy and significant silence reigned for some moments.
# # #
Draco was outside the room shaking. His ear was pressed right up against the door.
A spy and a traitor, inside his own home! Such depths he had sunk to... but he knew he was going to go through with this. He'd promised Hermione.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Draco just got so withering about my skills as a narrator at this point that I told him to tell the story himself if he thought he could do any better. He took me up on it, and until further notice this fanfiction will be brought to you in Draco Malfoy's own words:
I only understood my feelings towards Hermione. They were clear and simple to me. Everything else in the world was mysterious and muddy. It's wrong to think that love makes people crazy. Love is the only sanity there is.
So I stood there with my ear glued to the door, in pursuit of sanity. And even though Hermione wasn't exactly going to care if I did prov emyself worthy of her; even though she was totally wrapped up in that blasted Ron Weasley, I still did what I'd told her I'd do. It didn't do any good, though, I couldn't hear anything. And as I stood there listening to nothing like a fool my mother wandered along and saw me.
She was really shocked. I'd never seen her look frightened before. She grabbed my hand and pulled me away from there physically-- then she led me up the corridor away from the room. As soon as we'd got far enough that we couldn't be heard she said "Draco-- never do that again."
Her face was completely bloodless. She was squeezing my shoulder so hard it hurt-- my mother has long nails. She went on:
"Stay out of your father's business. Keep out of the way of those people. Do you understand me?"
"I understand, Mother," I said. I was relieved that she had phrased it that way so I wouldn't have to promise anything.
She kissed me on the cheek and let go of my shoulder. "Go to bed Draco, you must be tired out with travelling." There was a hint in her voice that not-tiredness wasn't an option.
I said goodnight and wandered upstairs. I was just heading to my room when the door of the portrait gallery swung open at me.
# # #
I really really hate the portrait gallery. Even Father never goes in there if he can help it. Servants refuse to dust there and even the torture chamber in the cellars has a pleasanter atmosphere. But something about that open door seemed-- expectant.
I cautiously put one foot over the threshold of the room;immediately the door swung shut behind me and knocked me the rest of the way inside. I was lying face down on the dusty carpet with most of the breath knocked out of me, when all the portraits started to jabber.
Rows and rows of Malfoy ancestors were gawping at me.
"What's THIS?"
"Is he a servant?"
"Stand up boy-- let us look at you!"
I pulled myself to my feet, and started to walk along the gallery. It was like running the gauntlet.
"Not a servant," said a recent ancestor. " He has our blood."
"THIS? A Malfoy?"
"He's a milksop!" said someone wearing armour.
"Weak-chinned..."
"Looks consumptive to me..."
"Can't even come into a room without falling over."
"The blood grows weaker with each generation..."
"You SURE he's a Malfoy?"
"Yes, the blood certainly isn't what it used to be..."
This was starting to get to me.
"Like I care what a load of mouldy canvas thinks of me," I said loudly.
The portraits grew even louder.
"Stand up straight, boy-- that slouch makes you look shifty!"
"SHIFTY? This halfwit? We'd be lucky!"
"Eat more red meat, put some flesh on those puny bones!"
"Fresh human blood, two pints each morning, no better tonic for a consumptive system."
That was my great grandmother Scarlett Malfoy who we don't tell people about. Not that there's anything wrong with having a vampire ancestor-- at least she wasn't a Muggle.
"So Draco-- you're in love?"
The jabber hushed and died. Even Scarlett stopped detailing cocktail recipes and all the portraits turned to stare at me. I looked for the ancestor who'd spoken. He was a big man with long black hair and malevolent black eyes. He was staring at me rather contempuously, I thought. HEATHMONT MALFOY it said under his frame.
"How did you know?" I asked him.
The ancestors started again.
"She must be pure-blood!"
"Remember your responsibility to the Malfoy lineage!"
"Remember you are carrying our standard! Do not let the blood be sullied!"
"SILENCE!" bellowed Heathmont. They all shut up.
"Go to your room, boy. We will speak of this more-- privately." He stared disdainfully round at the other portraits.
I walked off to my room and collapsed angrily on the bed.
###
There's a painting above my bed, of two happy bunnies or some such nonsense. A relic of childhood. Heathmont Malfoy strode into the frame and kicked the bunnies out of the way.
"So, Draco," he said. "I hear you're in love with a Mudblood."
"How did you know that?" I asked again.
"Walls have ears," he grinned mysteriously.
"I didn't tell any walls!" I was sick of mysteries.
Heathmont looked annoyed. "However, the house told ME."
That was just too ridiculous to contemplate.
"The HOUSE? Malfoy Manor? How would it know? And how would it tell you? Do walls have mouths as well? And precisely WHY is it any of your business."
Heathmont was looking murderous. "If I was three-dimensional you'd pay a price for your insolence, you whey-faced little cur." I was very glad he was trapped in the frame. "The house can speak to me because I choose to listen to it. I am one of the few of our noble lineage--" he grimaced-- "whom the Manor has ever actually liked. You, it appears, are another." He looked me up and down, more contempuously than ever. "No doubt it has its reasons... suffice it to say that the house has asked me to warn you.
He paused for a long time then, on purpose. I gave in first.
"Warn me of what?"
"Your father is angry with you. Your life may be in danger." He grinned as if to say this wasn't a displeasing thought. "Had you been my son, your life would have been in danger from the day you first spewed mewling from the womb. You're weak-- you have no fire in you. However, it seems your father has finally come to his senses."
He stalked out of the frame. Two bruised looking bunnies limped slowly back in.
END OF PART ONE
AUTHOR'S NOTE I have a feeling this one is going to get pretty weird. I love "Wuthering Heights" but Heathcliff has got to be one of the most disturbing characters in literature. Endowing him with magic powers might not have been such a clever idea-- hopefully I'll be able to keep Heathmont under control. Anyway, tell me what you think of this.
DISCLAIMER MOst of the characters here belong to JK Rowling not me. Heathmont sort of belongs to Emily Bronte but she's too dead to sue-- and that wizarding rumour about Emily being inspired by Malfoy Manor has no basis whatsoever in fact. Also you can't spell Emily Bronte's name properly on this keyboard.