The Serpent's Tongue
Prologue
His mother was a paranoid woman and had always strongly disliked the idea of international travel, since their family's influence and power didn't extend beyond the United Kingdom's boundaries. Every year prior, his pleas to be allowed to attend the Cup had fallen on deaf ears. Britain hadn't hosted the Quidditch World Cup in 30 years, but that changed the summer before his fourth year at Hogwarts. His father had accepted the Minister's invitation to sit in the Top Box to watch Bulgaria vs. Ireland, and he had counted down the days, looking forward to watching a professional match comfortably, without a loud and rambunctious crowd pressing in all around him.
Draco Malfoy's intestines churned when he and his parents reached the top of the staircase set exactly halfway between the golden goal posts and saw that they'd come upon Potter, fucking Potter of all people, and he was surrounded by an outrageous number of redheads- ugh, the Weasleys, of course- and, because that wasn't bad enough, Granger. He almost believed that they'd come to the wrong box.
"Good lord, Arthur," he heard his father murmur to keep the Minister from overhearing. "What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn't have fetched this much?"
Draco felt his lips slide up into a smirk. It was very entertaining to watch his father's tongue slice into someone that, for once, wasn't him. As much as he resented it sometimes, Draco wanted nothing more than to be like his father: Untouchable. And, sure enough, Arthur Weasley had been left dumbstruck, unable to come up with a retort. Draco sniffed. These "turn-the-other-cheek" types weren't righteous; they were just too slow.
Settling himself between his parents, Draco looked around the enormous stadium. Over a hundred thousand people were taking their seats around the field, and he could feel the tangible excitement: the very air seemed imbued with golden magic. He shifted his eyes over to Potter's group again. Their presence irritated him to no end. Having them so close cheapened everything else about this experience.
He looked over at his mother, whose face was still pinched with concern. She disliked crowds, and this was overwhelming her. He wished she would just relax and enjoy herself, but knew she was probably physically incapable of doing anything but worry that something would go wrong. It was an irrational fear, but it defined the woman.
Finally, Ludo Bagman barged into the box, almost bouncing on his heels with anticipation. He pointed his wand at his own throat and said, "Sonorus!"
His magically magnified voice boomed over the thousands and thousands of seats: "Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
Draco felt a little thrill course up his spine at the crowd's animated response, but he saw his mother stiffen out of the corner of his eye. There was no losing your sense of decorum when you were a Malfoy.
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"
"Veela!" he heard Mr. Weasley say.
"Father, what are veela-?" Draco began, but was interrupted when his father wordlessly raised a hand: he did not want to be disturbed with questions.
A hundred beautiful women came out into the field and began to dance, their skin glowing with an ethereal light, their white-gold hair swirling behind them gracefully, as if underwater. Draco felt his mother place a hand on his arm, as if to stop him from getting up. He gave her a questioning look, but she was looking past him at her husband.
Lucius Malfoy was struggling. His forehead and neck were perspiring; he produced a handkerchief from his robes and dabbed at his face, his grey eyes fixed on the dancing women. Draco frowned. "Father, are you alri-"
But the music had stopped, and angry shouts were rising from the seats. He looked over to the front of the box and saw Potter had left his seat and was resting a leg on the wall of the box. Next to him, Weasley had stood and bent his knees as if he meant to jump. In fact, everyone in the box had been behaving very strangely.
No, Draco corrected himself. Not everyone. He watched as Granger reached out and dragged Potter back to his seat. "Honestly!" he heard her say.
Another jolt coursed through Draco's body. The men. He swallowed hard. The veela only affected the men.
His throat felt dry.
So why didn't they affect me?
He'd been watching his Krum figurine walk back and forth sullenly across his pillow, as if it knew Bulgaria had lost the match, for what felt like hours, when the celebratory sounds coming from outside, which had faded gradually, seemed to return in full force. But they had changed. Screams, off in the distance. People running.
As he propped himself up on one shoulder, he heard his father laughing drunkenly – he and Macnair had polished off a bottle of firewhiskey each – and then stumble out of their tent. His mother parted the curtain sectioning off his sleeping area and hissed, "Draco, I'm going to fetch your father before he makes a fool of himself. Don't leave this tent, do you hear me? I will be right back."
Draco nodded, and she disappeared.
He counted to ten, then got up, pocketed his wand, and followed.
People were scattered and running into the woods, away from the clearing and its jumbled rows of campsites, where some of the tents had caught fire. They were running away from a group of hooded, masked wizards that were moving as one, their wants pointed at the sky.
Draco looked up and smirked. The Muggle campsite manager was floating in midair, following the wands. He was accompanied by what was surely his family—his wife, scrambling to cover herself as her nightdress shifted, and two small children. As far as he could see, they were unhurt. Just terrified.
Not wanting to get jostled by the people fleeing the campsites, he moved towards the woods and stayed close to the tree line, watching the hooded figures as they continued to string the Muggle family along like crude puppets. He leaned against a trunk and watched the fires stain the night red.
"…oh this is stupid – lumos!"
He turned his head and almost groaned. Of all the rotten luck.
Weasley, illuminated in Granger's wandlight, was getting to his feet, brushing off dirt and grumbling, "Tripped over a tree root."
"Well, with feet that size, hard not to," Draco said, unable to let the opportunity pass by.
The insufferable trio turned quickly in his direction.
"Fuck off, you slimy prat!" Weasley said darkly.
Draco smiled. "Language, Weasley." He tipped his head towards Granger. "Hadn't you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn't like her spotted, would you?"
An explosion from the campsite reverberated through the woods. And still the three stayed, watching him. If they had any sense, they'd be running away like everyone else. Ah, guess that explains a lot.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Granger was saying.
"Granger, they're after Muggles. D'you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Because if you do, hang around… they're moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh."
"Hermione's a witch," Potter was now stepping in front of her.
Just go, you prat. Draco sighed and gave him a smile. "If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, stay where you are."
"You watch your mouth!"
"Never mind, Ron," Granger was holding him back. Draco felt like laughing. So self-righteous.
Another bang. Louder this time. Get going.
"I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? What's he up to – trying to rescue the Muggles?"
"Where're your parents? Out there wearing masks, are they?" Potter was breathing hard.
Draco loved how easy it was to get a rise out of him. He slowly dipped his hand in his pocket and closed his fingers around his wand. If only it wasn't three against one, he would have loved hexing Potter's mouth shut.
"Well… if they were," Draco gave his voice a silky veneer he'd heard his father use when he wanted to be especially cruel, "I wouldn't be likely to tell you, would I, Potter?"
Granger, falling back into her role as mother hen, started dragging the two furious boys away. Draco felt a trace of disappointment. Fun's over.
"Keep that big bushy head down, Granger!"
He gripped his wand, a brief exhilaration filling his lungs as he almost expected Potter to come rushing back and not even bothering with a hex, just a fist connecting to jaw, some blood being spat. Maybe it was the dark excitement of the night. He had a reckless, irrational desire to hurt something. Someone. Potter. He wanted to bruise him, he wanted his skin to swell at Potter's violence.
But the woods remained dark and silent. He was alone.
He turned back to the campsite's chaos.
Author's Notes: Thanks for reading this prologue! I hope you have enjoyed it. The dialogue in the prologue is (for the most part) taken exactly as it appears in the Quidditch World Cup scenes from HP & the Goblet of Fire, but I wanted to tackle these scenes from Draco's point of view before getting into the meat of the story. I obviously want to give credit where credit is due. No copyright infringement intended!