Author's note: Written on the eve of the release of the seventh and final book. Here's to hoping Draco doesn't kick the bucket.
-Touch-
Lucius Malfoy had raised his only son to be a connoisseur. Be it food, wine, fabric, musical instruments or women, Draco could draw the cream from the top of the milk jar. His five senses were all needed to discern minutiae, but above all, he required his sense of touch.
One light touch could tell him if red wine had been cooled properly. A soft stroke in the right place could inform him of his date's intentions. Touch could work wonders, if one knew where to place one's fingers.
But this particular sense could also turn against him. Draco could be perfectly in control one moment, and the next his respective other senses were sent reeling. It unnerved him, to say the least.
---
Pansy Parkinson was easy to figure out. With her right leg hooked over the left, foot beating a delicately impatient tattoo against the train seat, she merely looked like the bored, haughty, aristocratic Pureblood she was. But, Draco mused, when one factored in the low vee of her blouse, the slightly-shorter-than-school-regulation skirt, and the muted scent of her flowery perfume, it wasn't hard to decipher her intentions.
Despite already knowing how the girl would take it (and privately reveling in the control he held over her), he idly inserted his finger into his mouth. Pansy's mouth fell slightly open and her foot stopped its incessant tapping. Her primly locked knees loosened slightly, and Draco knew that if he bothered to look, he would see a glorious view of her lacy white knickers. Letting his eyes slide to her crotch, he grinned around his finger.
The snack trolley announced its presence outside the compartment, and he was suddenly, inexplicably, taken by the desire to consume several chocolate frogs. Despite having a full box of gourmet truffles given to him by his mother, Draco rose to his feet, removed the digit in his mouth and opened the compartment door, only to nearly trample the pixie-like figure standing directly in front of it.
Immediately recognizing the lustrous hair of Ginny Weasley, he couldn't resist a hateful smirk. If he had had a more brilliant plan of revenge for her Bat Bogey Curse, he would have done something truly dastardly. Unable to think of anything suitable, he slid a finger under her lace tank top strap and pulled hard. She stumbled back, trodding on his foot. She grabbed his hand and twisted herself around, wild half-curls flying out. The redhead's eyes narrowed. Her nails dug into his hand as she pried it off of her.
"Filth," she hissed, taking her Cauldron Cakes from the trolley witch and stalking away.
He neatly answered the old witch's question ("Anything from the trolley, dear?"), got his chocolate frogs, and slid into his compartment. Pansy didn't seem to have noticed anything unusual about this encounter, for which he was grateful. His hand tingled from the feel of lace. Pansy's hand lightly touched his knee, and he wiggled his leg, hoping she would get the message that he didn't want to be touched.
She didn't. Shoving her hand away unceremoniously, he beckoned to Crabbe and Goyle. It was time to pay Potter a visit.
---
After three days, the summer was shaping up to be quite useless. His mother had far too much class to physically mope, but she absolutely refused to go to her weekly tea time with Pansy's mother, which she wouldn't have done if his father hadn't been in gaol. She never lost her composure in front of him, but at times, her eyes seemed to glint, and he didn't think it was the lighting.
And so Draco had been reduced to watering his mother's plants. She didn't feel like doing it most of the time, but she didn't trust the house elves to not be eaten or maimed. So, naturally, it fell to Draco.
He was nearly done when he heard footsteps behind him. Calmly ending the watering spell, he turned warily to find the Hogwarts Potions Master, Severus Snape, standing a few steps away. "Professor," Draco acknowledged, inclining his head slightly.
"Draco," Snape replied. "I trust your summer has been satisfactory?"
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Draco said, "Superb. If you would like my mother-"
"No, Draco." Snape interrupted. "I am here to see you."
"Sir?"
"Lucius was not to have been captured," the Potions Master said quietly. "The Dark Lord was…not pleased-"
"I would imagine," Draco muttered.
"Not pleased," Snape continued over him. "And since he cannot punish Lucius in Azkaban, he is-"
"Is what? Going to punish me?" the blonde asked, horrified. "If my mother knew-"
"Be quiet." Draco closed his mouth reluctantly. Snape continued: "Since Lucius is unreachable, the Dark Lord is giving your family a second chance."
"A second-"
"Chance, yes." Snape surveyed him idly, and Draco put up his mental defenses out of habit. "There has always been a Malfoy in the Inner Circle, Draco."
"So I'm to replace my father, then." It wasn't a question.
Snape gave a stiff nod, and the blonde felt something hard settle in his stomach. "Your initiation will be sometime this month." His teacher casually placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'll be in touch."
Feeling awkward, Draco nodded. Snape removed his hand and walked away. The teen stood in place for a moment, feeling young and old and, above all, confused.
---
Draco returned from his first meeting with the Dark Lord shaking and nauseous. He collapsed in the foyer, clutching his arm and feeling incredibly weak.
"Draco?" His mother called. Soft footsteps pit-patted in the hallway and Draco forced himself to stand for her. "Draco, are you-" She gasped when she saw him.
"Mum," he croaked. Clearing his throat painfully, he began again. "Mother. It went well."
Narcissa hurriedly schooled her features into something blank and distantly caring. "I expected nothing less. You are Lucius' son, after all." She came closer and hesitantly adjusted his robes. The fabric ghosted over his left arm and his fingers twitched into a semi-fist. He tried to hide the wince, but his mother's hand faltered anyway.
She pulled back from him and snapped her fingers. A house elf appeared. "Tea, elf." A few seconds later, the same elf reappeared carrying a tray with earl gray on it. His mother handed him a steaming cup and, gratefully, he took it. They both sat down in facing armchairs.
Several minutes later, he looked up from his cup and met his mother's stare. "Mother?" She shook her head, her face still intent. "He said-"
"No. Say nothing of it, Draco. Not yet." She stood and walked over to her son. He raised his eyes to her, his brow feeling uncomfortably tight from dried sweat. Her face softened and one of her elegant, manicured hands reached out to sweep his fringe out of his face and to the side. "Not yet."
She left him then, alone in the parlor. He rubbed his fists hard into his eyes, trying to erase the lonely look on his mother's face as she grieved for the end of his childhood.
---
August drew to a close, and Draco found himself standing over the greatest thorn in his side, arms crossed. Looking down his nose at Harry Potter, he let his arms swing loose.
"You didn't hear anything I cared about, Potter. But while I've got you here…" Before he lost his nerve, he stomped on Potter's nose as hard as he possibly could. The crunch of mashed cartilage beneath his foot shuddered up his leg in a sickening rush. His shoe slipped slightly. "That's from my father. Now, let's see…"
He picked up Potter's invisibility cloak, (how many times had he petitioned his father for one?) reveling in his momentary power over the other boy. The silvery fabric slid easily over his fingers as he threw the cloak over his enemy. "I don't reckon they'll find you till the train's back in London. See you around, Potter," he said lowly. "…or not."
Taking a wild guess as to where Potter's fingers were, Draco pressed the heel of his shoe into the ground and was rewarded with the unstable rocking of bones grinding together.
---
His first breakdown (that was the only word for them) occurred shortly after his first failed murder attempt. He had forced Rosmerta to buy the necklace from Borgin in a fit of impotent rage. His failure to fix the Vanishing Cabinet in four months frustrated him beyond all reckoning.
He was intelligent; he wasn't stupid, he raged to himself. Why wasn't he succeeding?! Seeing Potter achieve so much in Potions when the boy didn't deserve it irked Draco more than he could put into words. Where was the wanker getting this sudden talent?
He leaned his head against the cool surface of the bathroom mirror, trying unsuccessfully to stifle the hot tears dripping slowly down his face. Malfoys don't cry, Malfoys don't cry, Malfoys-
"Why are you crying?"
Spinning wildly to find the speaker, he lost his balance and fell to the floor. Moaning Myrtle crouched down to his level, a mildly concerned look on her face. "Boys don't cry very often, so it's got to be bad."
"Go away," he snarled. "And leave me alone!"
"Why should I?" she said petulantly, pushing her ethereal glasses higher up the bridge of her nose.
"Because I don't want to fail with an audience. I shouldn't be failing anyway, I'm a Malfoy," he hissed.
Myrtle screwed her face up in thought. "Well, that's not to say you're perfect."
Getting his feet underneath him, Draco attempted to stand but slipped on the wet tiling. His cheeks burned in embarrassment. "I'm as good as," he muttered half-heartedly.
She reached out a pale hand to pat his cheek which tingled uncomfortably cold. He shivered. "No, you're not perfect. You're human."
It was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut, wondering why the only person in Hogwarts who seemed to understand his dilemma was the ghost of a twelve-year-old girl.
---
He was close to fixing the Cabinet. Draco went to bed early that night; he would finish and test it tomorrow. And then…they would attack.
Gently, he touched the nearly unnoticeable ridge that ran across his face. Potter would pay for that. He didn't care who got in his way, but Potter would go down.
He must have fallen asleep shortly after that, because he was awakened near dawn by the sharp crack of thunder. Figuring he might as well get out of bed, he stepped quietly to the window. The rain slapped against the mullioned windows.
When he was younger, he had been absolutely terrified of thunderstorms. Lucius, staunchly disapproving of his young heir's fear, had expressly forbid Draco come to Narcissa for comfort. For several months, he had suffered in silence, until one night there was an especially vicious storm.
Frightened out of his wits and forgetting entirely his father's axiom, the young blonde dashed into his parents' room and jumped into their bed. His mother, startled out of sleep, instinctively wrapped an arm around him in a comforting gesture. Angrily, his father demanded why he had disobeyed. Draco, unable to come up with a suitable excuse, looked away in childish anger. There was a soft sigh, and then his father's heavy hand rested on his head for a moment. "Go back to bed, Draco," his mother whispered then.
Coming back to the present, Draco opened his eyes and heaved a quiet sigh. He didn't have to touch the clouds or the people around him to know that his own private storm was fast approaching, and there would be no comfort from his mother this time.