A/N: Here's an idea I had about a thirteen-year-old Draco Malfoy. I was talking to other writers and describing a boy I see in my neighbourhood frequently and how he looked like I imagined Draco Malfoy could have looked at age twelve or thirteen: up to no good and always in the company of several girls.
I wanted to put this one-shot under "Contemplation", but there was no such category, so "Humour" it is, even though it isn't really funny. It brings a smile to my face to look at the self-righteous anger of a thirteen year old, though, plotting the demise of a schoolyard enemy.
And this one has been betaed, too. The amazing pagan has taken the time to get me in shape. Thank you, pagan, the story is so much better with your help.
Blame Rumaan for putting it in my head that I could write something about him. I'll dedicate this to her, as my muse, so to say ;-))).
And here it is.
Quacking Ducks
The rock bounced of the back of the duck and landed in the water with a splash.
The duck quacked indignantly and sped off to hide amongst the reeds lining the little pond situated on a small plot of land within the extensive grounds of the Malfoy Manor Gardens.
No, not Gardens. Parks. Malfoy Manor Parks. Manicured Malfoy Manor Parks. Manured Manicured Malfoy Manor Parks. Magnificently Manured Manicured Malfoy Manor Parks.
Draco thought, rather sullenly, if truth be told, that if he kept up this line of thought, he would eventually come up with a word for parks that started with an "M" as well. "Parks" wasn't even right because the grounds weren't open to the public.
The Malfoy Manor Pastures.
Ah, that would work.
Or Meadows. Hah, there it was.
Because, if they had been accessible to just anyone, well then, somebody else would be here besides the quacking ducks.
And him.
He threw another stone which hit another duck on its wing and fall into the water with a splash.
Boring.
The second duck had quacked just like the first one, and just like the first one, it had fled before the dragon's wrath.
Which was probably a smart thing to do.
Draco Malfoy hadn't expected ducks to be smart. But that revelation was far from exciting and didn't keep his attention for long. He was utterly bored.
Of course, he could have levitated the rocks lining the shore and then dropped them on each duck's head. But, not only did he not need the exercise for his Wingardium Leviosa, he'd already aced that particular charm. He was Draco Malfoy, after all, and had finished his second year at Hogwarts with flying colours. No, there was something oddly satisfying in using one's hands and arm and shoulder muscles to throw something.
And hearing it hit the target. And the target's loud protests.
Even though Draco Malfoy was a distinctly privileged thirteen-year-old who considered himself quite a bit more articulate than quacking ducks, he wished he could have just as loudly and vividly expressed his irritation.
Which was vast. As vast as the Malicious Manured Merlin-forsaken—well, the point was already made.
Draco sat down on a stretch of grass right at the water and watched the ripples from his rocks disperse into the reeds while he ripped unsuspecting, innocent grass blades mindlessly from their tufts.
It was utterly dissatisfying because the grass couldn't protest. At least the ducks had made their displeasure known.
Loudly.
Draco huffed and threw himself backwards onto the grass, crushing more unsuspecting grass under his body weight.
Served it right. Why did it have to be everywhere, loitering? It could have just left him alone.
Just as all his friends had. He wished he could crush them, too.
He had asked his mother this morning if he could go and visit Blaise Zabini for a few days because he was bored out of his skull. He was stuck all alone at Malfoy Manor with his parents too busy to pay him any attention. But his mother had declined. She had informed him that the Zabinis were visiting their Italian ancestral home, enjoying the summer in Italy, and wouldn't return until just before school started again.
Draco had then inquired about the Bletchleys, the Puceys, the Flints, heck, even the Notts. He wasn't particularly friendly with Theo, but he would have accepted his company if he was the only one he could get. Nott was just too bookish, and although Draco could hold his own in a classroom—he was a Malfoy, after all—he didn't need to study hard, and he didn't like bookish, boring studying all the time.
He enjoyed a good book just as much as the next pureblood, but there were other things besides books. Somebody just had to look at Granger and her hiding out in the library. It just wasn't normal.
He shuddered.
Of course, it wasn't normal. She was a Mudblood, wasn't she?
He scowled, thinking about this particular Mudblood: how she was always hanging out with Potter, and how her insults precisely hit their target. There was a certain beauty in it.
He wrenched his thoughts away from stimulating insults.
Studying was boring. Stimulating conversation would be good.
Not that either of his usual "companions" was known for deep conversations. The other guys played Quidditch with him; that was what they were good for.
But even that was out of the question because he'd flown his broomstick so many times until his bum was raw.
But with the state he was in now, any conversation would be welcomed, even about Quidditch. Anything would be more stimulating that a pretend, one-sided conversation with quacking ducks.
He would have even considered a conversation with Parkinson or the Greengrasses—girls, yuck!—as intellectually stimulating at this point in time. At least he could have boasted about his flying prowess, his Quidditch skills, and his Malfoy status, and he would have had an attentive audience. He didn't do well when talking to himself.
But his mother had shot down all his ideas and had gotten shirty with him for wasting her time. She didn't have time for this, she'd said, while she was likely on her way to meet up with some girlfriend or other to conspire against their Death Eater husbands or gossip about that escaped prisoner from Azkaban, the one that supposedly betrayed the Potters.
He had overheard his father telling his mother, sneering maliciously at the people on Dumbledore's side, that they couldn't even recognize one of their own. And then he'd made a snide remark about Draco's mother's family that had her biting her lips in anger.
When Draco had asked her five minutes later about his holiday entertainment, she had snidely remarked that nobody had time with a crazy murderer running freely around without a known target and had told him to go play on his own in the secure Malfoy gardens.
He snorted.
Play on his own.
As if he was still a small boy of three instead of a teenager of thirteen.
Why, a few hundred years ago, he would have been considered a full-grown man. Almost. In fact, back then, he would have been required to start thinking about marriage and raising a family of his own. Not that he had any interest in girls for procreation purposes (again, yuck) and he considered himself lucky that he didn't have to work for his food, but playing?
No, he was certainly above 'playing'; other than Quidditch, of course.
He threw another rock. Since the ducks had already scattered after the first two rocks, he only hit the water with a plonk. Though hidden by the reeds, he could hear the ducks complaining due to the disturbance in the water: the ripples caused by the rock would have reached them. A smirk spread across his face and then immediately disappeared again.
If only there was somebody here with him. He could have made a competition on who could hit more ducks.
And laugh himself silly over it.
Or over his competitor.
He was quite pleased with his throwing and his aim; he just wished he could share it with someone. Anyone, really.
Even Crabbe and Goyle would do at this point. But noooo, they had to go to France with their parents for the summer.
Together.
He would love to see Crabbe and Goyle embarrass themselves when the French girls looked at them sideways. They didn't speak a single word of French. He doubted they even knew how to say Merci. Not that Draco would ever say it, either in French or any other language. Malfoys didn't thank anyone. But Crabbe and Goyle couldn't, even if they wanted to.
And their looks—what a waste. He snorted again.
And here he was, stuck in bloody old England, walking through vast pastures of nice, green, summery landscape all alone. What good did it do to be the elite of the wizarding world when you didn't have any friends to do something with?
Anger boiling in him, he turned his head to look for another rock to throw.
It wasn't that he wanted to go to France or even Italy, for that matter. He just wanted somebody for company.
He loved his broomstick fiercely, but if he spent any more time on it he would get blisters in very uncomfortable places.
And he'd been through all the books in the library two years ago and had been forbidden to read the new ones.
Of course, he had tried to read them anyway, but some of them hadn't opened and he hadn't been able to figure out the spells to open them, and others he had opened but didn't understand a word of.
Foreign languages and convoluted rubbish. Boring.
He bet Granger would be able to decipher them. Or find the opening spells.
He rolled his eyes. Granger again. What was it with the bushy-haired, buck-toothed, dirt-bloodied friend of Harry Potter that she marched into his head so frequently?
He didn't want to think about Potter and his 'friends'. He bet they were all cooped up in the Weasel's home and having a jolly good time, going for swims in ponds and pools, eating ice-cream in the shade, playing Quidditch (well, not Granger with her fear of flying) and laughing their heads off.
Likely about him.
He growled and sat up, leaning his chin on his raised knees and staring at the water again, watching the sun glitter on its surface. He was sure they were laughing about him, the same way he was laughing about them with his 'friends'.
Roaring in laughter, yelling and screaming in summer fun and mock fights; he wished he could yell out his frustration.
But his father would have his hide in welts if he found him screaming in anger or frustration. Malfoys didn't yell and scream. They sneered and hissed maliciously. Apparently, this was much more sophisticated than roaring and yelling like a peasant or Muggle, or stomping about like a hippogriff, the way those clumsy and boisterous Gryffindors did.
Then why did they always look so happy about it?
And then he remembered that the Weasleys were in Egypt. There had been a photo in the Daily Prophet, showing them in front of a pyramid.
He growled. Even the stupid Weasleys went on vacation, all together, and he sat here, bored out of his mind because his parents were busy with Merlin knew what.
Well, at least Potter was likely all alone for the summer as well and not happy as a lark in the summer sun. He shouldn't have any reasons to be happy anyway, in Draco's honest opinion. And that was perfectly fine with him.
Potter had lost his parents, was brought up by Muggles and was annoyingly famous without ever having done anything. Draco sneered and beheaded an innocent dandelion, picked it apart, and threw the mangled remains in the water to drown. Other than surviving an Avada, he thought, Potter hadn't done anything or shown any skills. In terms of magical skills, Draco was clearly the superior. He had, after all, grown up in a privileged magical environment. And Potter?
Potter showed skill on the broom without ever having tried it before.
A glittering dragonfly flew by and Draco couldn't catch it, even with his Seeker reflexes. He grunted at his own failure. He knew that he wasn't the best Seeker in school. His father had already told him as many times as he had Galleons in Gringott's vaults, how embarrassing that was.
He snorted. How was it possible that Potter was such an outrageously good flyer?
On the dragonfly's next unsuspecting turn, Draco froze it in the air with a spell. But just when he was about to take it and pull out its wings like how he had pulled the dandelion apart, a thought stopped him.
What had his father said this morning? He'd said that Sirius was a blood traitor, a blemish on the Black family tree, which was what had upset his mother so much. But he hadn't prattled on about the Potters. It was widely known in their Death Eater circles that Sirius was innocent of this particular crime. But who in his right mind would have stood up for a blood traitor? A Black he might be, but Sirius had hung out with the Potters, had been a Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake, and had turned his back on the old Black life philosophy—Toujours Pur. That hadn't made him any friends in their circles. And he hadn't seemed particularly inclined to join their side; on the contrary, he had fought actively against the Dark Lord. He had blood traitor written all over him in bright, bold letters. In addition, it was still possible that he had killed Pettigrew in his rage. Not that anybody was sorry for Pettigrew, the snivelling bootlicker, but well, apparently Pettigrew had been helpful, his father had said.
His father had also said that Sirius Black had been overheard muttering several times 'He is at Hogwarts' and that the Ministry officials thought Black would try to contact Potter. His father only knew because of his ever-important standing and good connections in the Ministry. Draco wasn't quite sure how that ever would affect him, but it made his father sound even more important. And anything that made the Malfoys appear more important was fine by Draco. However, the reason why Black would contact Potter was entirely obscure, but it was irrelevant in any case. Dumbledore would never let a convicted murderer get into Hogwarts to have a 'chat' or whatever else with one of his students.
The frozen dragonfly was still hovering in front of him. Draco surveyed its colours and its fluttering strain against the freezing spell, thinking deeply. Perhaps he could egg Potter on and enforce the belief that Black was the culprit behind Potter's parents' deaths. If he played his cards right, Potter would try to avenge his parents. Gryffindors were so gullible when it came to doing 'the right thing'. And then, when Potter went to confront Black, Black wouldn't have much choice but to defend himself and Potter would at least be hurt, if not killed, in the process. No thirteen-year-old could stand against the full power of a pureblood, even if he was a blood traitor, surely. Thus, Black would put Potter out of commission or even rid Draco of his pesky opponent so that he could finally win one bloody Quidditch match against Gryffindor. But, he had to make sure that Potter faced Black alone, outside the castle. Otherwise, somebody would surely help him again and Draco's whole thought-out plan would come to naught.
Potter's stupid sidekicks were always standing by him. He was never really alone, Potter, was he? Always surrounded by Weasley and Granger. Granger at least wasn't as vapid as Goyle and Crabbe and his other 'friends'.
Ha! Granger would be furious if she found out. She would be all alone when Potter was gone, done away by a crazy murderer. As alone as he was now. That Weasley was Potter's mate, and not hers, was a given.
The thought that two people who were alone could come together and not be alone anymore niggled at his brain. But it wasn't that simple, was it? There were people he could never come together with, like Potter, Weasley, and the Granger girl.
Beneath him, they were. Miles beneath him. No way would he ever lower himself to their level.
Especially Granger's level. At least Weasley had grown up in the proper, wizard way; poor, yes, but magical. What did Granger have? Her parents were not magical. Potter's at least had been, even though his mum had been Muggleborn. Just like Granger.
Granger: bushy-haired, smart-mouthed, buck-toothed, bossy, insufferable know-it-all. He still smarted at her insinuation that his father had bought his place on the Quidditch team. He'd love to rip that bird's nest of her head, just for that. He wasn't a bad Seeker; Potter was just always better. Would she cry if he tore at her hair? Perhaps.
Or perhaps not. She would most likely hit him, feisty as she was. It was no doubt typical of the peasant, Muggle way she had been brought up. Everything about her screamed Wrong in the wizarding world, and yet she had the audacity to best him in every stupid class, try as he might to work hard. Even in Potions she scored higher. Why did she have to be so excellent when she didn't even belong here?
Well, he had a plan. He would urge Potter to go and find that Black murderer, who in turn would likely do away with him, and then when Granger cried her heart and eyes out, he would add to her grieve and tell her that she was all alone now and really didn't belong in his world anymore.
And then she would disappear into her Muggle world and he would finally find peace at Hogwarts without Potter or Granger.
He threw another rock in the water and grinned maliciously when the water splashed high.
Perhaps he could throw so many rocks that the water had no room in the pond anymore. And then the ducks would be homeless. And alone.
Just like he was.
Stupid ducks.
Stupid, quacking ducks.
A/N: Well, what do you think about our favourite sulking pureblood?