This was originally called "The New Wench" and it was meant as a companion to another story of mine…but then I decided to change it up a little…after all, it had been in dire need of a rewrite, as it is…so I hope you enjoy getting a glimpse inside the skull of a former ferret…
-HG-
"Oh, Draco, dearest?" My mother called up to me from the first floor in a tone of thinly veiled anger. Dear Lord. I truly couldn't stand the sound of her speaking; it was like snagging a bow on the very highest string of a violin…continuously. "Draco, darling, do come down here a moment, won't you?"
I gave a luxurious little groan of displeasure, mostly for the benefit of my own self-pity, and slammed shut 101 Gruesome Curses for Your Closest Friends, a very fun little book I'd nicked from Father's study when he was away on "business". Narcissa always had the most perfect timing of anyone; no matter whether I had just opened a book, was just in the process of stepping into a nice hot shower, or was lying down for a midday rest, she always needed me precisely at that moment. Probably a feminine trait in general, actually.
I descended the steps at my own leisure, quite enjoying the chill of the forest-green marble against my bare feet. As I drew into sight of my mother, who was looking none too pleased about something, I was struck by the irresistible urge to truly irritate her. This was not, of course, a very difficult thing to accomplish.
"What do you want, Narcissa?" I inquired in a pleasant tone, giving her my best smirk and draping myself lazily over the mahogany banister at the foot of the stairs.
Her brow furrowed, and her eyes flickered, their usual icy grey appearing at the moment to have darkened to a rather livid charcoal. I watched idly as her white hands clenched at her sides with a delicacy carefully cultivated through a lifetime utterly devoid of contact with dishwater.
"Draco Malfoy, you will address me as 'Mother' at all times!" she declared hotly, her voice reaching an amusingly high pitch in her maternal rage. She looked me up and down in palpable distaste, then violently ordered, "And put some shoes on!"
Ooh, I could feel my smirk becoming even more pronounced; it was a delicious sort of feeling, really. I mean, how could I help it? The woman was a right basket case about appearances. Because, of course, at any time, the Daily Prophet could come a-knocking, and no doubt would delight in splashing a barefoot Draco Malfoy across the front page. The scandal! With all of the stellar minds working on that paper, the headline would be something very droll like "LUCIUS MALFOY'S SPAWN PRONE TO SHOELESSNESS IN OWN MANOR". Horrors.
"Ah, I don't think so," I responded thoughtfully, wiggling my toes with relish and peering down at them, my head tilted to one side. Boy, was I feeling whimsical.
Narcissa's face rapidly took on the color of a finely aged Merlot. "DO—AS—YOU'RE—TOLD!" she sputtered, scarcely able to speak for all of the righteous fury to which she was no doubt falling prey. She pointed at me with a trembling index finger, the overlong nail of which was bedecked in a garish purple-black sort of color.
Right, as entertaining as it was to nudge my mother to the brink of a heart attack, I'd had my fun. "Didn't you want me for something, Mother?" I reminded her, the portrait of civility, taking care to emphasize the title she so desired me to use.
She opened her mouth, no doubt to continue her volley of shrieks, but stopped, presumably startled by my address. Her arm still hovering in the air, she bit her lip. "What was it….oh, yes! Draco, dear…your father wants you in the study," she informed me, suddenly all business, lowering her accusatory finger so that she could straighten the waist of her newest Mme. Malkin's designer piece.
I rolled my eyes and went off in the direction of the study, leaving her to continue fussing with the unflattering eggplant-colored taffeta number that she had insisted upon having. My mother has her priorities, I suppose.
"Yes, Father?" I called into the study, my tone bright with forced obedience. I took a step or two through the doorway, noticing the absolute emptiness of the room. No Father, lots of other things. Every inch of wall-space suffered beneath the weight of shelves upon shelves of books; I'd wager that a good three-fourths of the volumes concerned the Dark Arts in some way. Not that I'd ever looked, or anything like that. Thought never crossed my mind.
I strode casually over to one of the very high, very broad bookcases, and dragged a languid finger down a row of particularly dilapidated bindings. The books had such formidable titles as Curses for Profit, An Advanced Guide to Quick-Acting Poisons, and 200 Variations on the Full-Body Bind. I smirked. How amusing. My family was well read, to say the least.
In my lazy perusal of the Malfoy Manor Library, I spotted a book that I had never noticed before. This, of course, was partially due to the fact that the very small hardback was wedged between Volumes I and II of An Introduction to the Dark Arts, souvenirs of the summer studies Father took at Durmstrang before his sixth year. Hmm. I pried out the small book, which was an off shade of green, a sort of queasy, faded sage color, and noted that the letters LM were stamped in peeling silver leaf down the spine.
Ooh. Lucius Malfoy. Did mine eyes deceive me, or did the dear little thing appear to be some sort of journal?
Splendid.
I eased open the front cover with an odd sense of foreboding. I knew that my days on earth were numbered, should Father discover me piddling about with his personal effects.
If my eyes were working properly, and I'm reasonably sure they were, I spotted the smallest of stains on the inside of the front cover. Reddish-brown. Either rust or blood, and considering the sort of things my father did to get his kicks, I was willing to bet on it being the latter.
If I weren't entirely iron-stomached, I'm fairly certain my insides would've done a small back flip at this discovery. But of course, being a Malfoy, I was not in the least bit squeamish. No, sir. Not at all. Nothing of the sort.
Merlin, I was thisclose to vomiting.
But I had more pressing things to do with my time than spend it throwing up, so I swallowed hard and turned the page. And the next. And again. And so on and so forth.
It was perhaps the most boring book I'd ever perused, and do keep in mind I'd taken History of Magic for five years, so that was certainly saying something. There was only a line or two per page of my father's narrow, curly script. (Too utterly prim for my tastes. I of course did not have such fussy handwriting.)
But honestly. From what I could tell, Father had decided one day to catalog what color socks he wore each day for one year. It was that precise brand of boring. Although I think it was about money. Oh, money, money, money, as though he had anything to worry about in that arena.
As I was contemplating the secret, mind-numbingly dull side of my father that I'd been lucky enough never to see, I heard his very distinctive footsteps draw up outside the doorway.
In a maneuver that I believe was borne of sheer brilliance, I shoved the book with very Malfoyesque dignity straight down the front of my pants. I hitched my robes more tightly around me as my father stepped onto the library's wooden floor.
That ridiculous cane made such a racket when he banged it on the ground like that.
"Draco," he began in a voice that surely was capable of curdling even the freshest cream. "What are you-"
"Doing?" I interjected. Foolishly. "I was just finding a good bedtime read for tonight, you know, something engaging, that sort of thing…" Ramble, ramble on, you little idiot. I honestly wouldn't have blamed my father one bit if he had lopped my head off right then.
As it was, he was giving me the patented Malfoy Sneer, known in some circles as the Kindly Shrivel Up and Die look. I preferred the former title, in all of its heritage-laden glory. Most of the wizarding world, at least, those that mattered, had seen the Malfoy Sneer in action. My classmates at Hogwarts knew of it, because I did my best to employ it at the very least once daily. Lip curled past perfectly straight and white teeth. Strong, very masculine jaw set in a tight clench. Positively Grecian nose wrinkled slightly. Eyes like fine crystal staring daggers into the hapless victim. None of this, of course, able to hide the blinding brilliance of a Malfoy's good looks.
A Malfoy is a splendid thing, really. So modest, to the bitter end.
"You did want me for something, didn't you, Father?" I uttered the words in almost the exact same tone of sickening courtesy that I had used with my dear mother earlier.
"Yes, I suppose I did," he said, voice sopping with contempt. My father's a lovely person, really. Just a bit of a rough exterior. A great old softie once you reach the innards.
He was terrifying.
He moved past me, his unnerving poise employed to its fullest extent. He swept behind the overlarge desk in the corner with a dramatic swish of his cloak, and gestured to the leather chair before it.
I'd never liked that chair. It squeaked and made embarrassing noises if you made any sudden movements while seated in it.
"Sit, Draco," he commanded, his patience obviously wearing. It wasn't really even patience to begin with, just the sort of mercy that makes a Death Eater decide not to turn your guts into garters until after you're dead.
I was treading dangerous ground already, and we'd not even started a proper discussion yet. Excellent job, Draco. Needless to say, I complied with his wishes immediately. Thankfully, the chair remained silent as I lowered myself onto its seat.
"I just wanted to let you know, Draco," he began, so icily that I found myself staring expectantly at his mouth, waiting for a few chips of ice to dribble out of the corner. "That, as my only son, indeed, only chance of carrying on the Malfoy name-" Dear Lord. The way he pronounced the words "Malfoy" and "name" gave the impression that he was actually assigning to me the task of looking after some precious artifact, Slytherin's hairbrush or something. "-I fully anticipate that you will secure the position of Head Boy this term."
This statement was met with thunderous silence. I felt a vile sort of nausea start to fight its way up my esophagus, because I honestly was not sure if I would be named Head Boy. Dumbledore had his favorites, and I had no illusions about being one of them. That would've put me in rank with the likes of Potter and his friends…the Unholy Trinity. No, thank you.
Wouldn't that add salt to the wound, though? If I was not only denied the honor of being named Head Boy, but bloody Potter got it? The swaggering idiot was already too famous for his own good.
"I…expect there's not much competition," I said slowly, measuring my words with the utmost care. "The other prefects aren't on the level, that spotty berk Weasley's one of them." I hoped dearly that I'd convinced my father of my impending success. Mentioning Weasley was a stroke of genius on my part, if I do say so myself. Father would rather have tea with a Muggle than daft, filthy Arthur Weasley.
Then again…oh, bollocks. If I lost to that prat, Father would find some sort of awful torture to visit upon me. Something unutterably despicable, like castration.
Father chuckled throatily and gave me the particular smile that I associated with being denied sweets as a child. You know the sort: he'd offer me a lolly and with little concern for preserving my figure, I would leap at the chance. Father would, of course, take my obvious enthusiasm as the cue to pop the sweet in his mouth and smile at me, as I dissolved into the tears brought on by the crushing of my soul. Git.
"Excellent," he said, sounding satisfied and still smiling that horrid smile as he leaned back in his chair. "I do hope you've assumed correctly, Draco." His face grew tighter and momentarily frightening, and I fought the urge the recoil from the desk; I remembered just in time that doing so might warrant a mortifying sound from the chair. "For your sake."
"Well, I'm fairly sure I'm the most likely candidate, although I'm sure the Mudblood Granger might make it as well, but there's no accounting for taste, is there, no, I should be well and in, maybe Pansy will even get Head Girl, she's most capable-" Again with the rambling. It took even longer than before to halt the senseless wagging of my tongue. Bloody hell.
"That's quite enough." My father quelled me with an exceedingly icy version of the Malfoy Sneer. "Leave me."
He didn't have to ask twice.