Now, I've never attempted anything in this category before, so I'm probably going to make a mess of it. Usual disclaimers apply (JK Rowling can have the Malone family if she wants them, by the way) and flames don't scare me; I've shown my stuff to my English teacher!
I groaned, and thumped the alarm clock. The first day of term, I decided, is the invention of Beelzebub. On the plus side, I was getting shot of Stonewalls at long last; my dad reckoned that going to a normal school during the day and home magic coaching would give us a grounding in both cultures. It made sense really; OWLs as well as GCSEs might come in handy.
Much to my father's regret, however, the Ministry had disagreed. They only found out during the summer holidays before what ought to have been our sixth year, and ill-tempered official letters were exchanged, culminating in me and my sister Francis being sent to Hogwarts this year.
I'd thought it might make a nice change, though it was less appealling at this hour of the morning. I'll skip the rather monotonous description of preparing for school, the last-minute panics and so forth because you probably go through the same thing.
Mum dropped us at the local station, where we would travel to King's Cross. For reasons which will be explained in the fullness of time, she didn't fancy running into fellow Hogwarts students and their parents (one specific set of parents, actually).
"Right, good luck, you two. Try not to get into any trouble," Mum warned us. I mentally translated this as 'Don't punch Draco Malfoy', and nodded. Fran gave Mum a hug, and we proceeded to the platform. Instead of the regulation trunks, we were carrying suitcases which Dad had performed some mildly illegal modifications on, and a holdall each.
"If the train's late..." Fran said nervously.
"It's a twenty minute journey and the train should come out on Platform Nine," I replied. "No way can it be THAT late, even in this country." Fran is the more easily worried of the two of us. Which is odd really, seeing as she is also the most outright reckless, as well as having better people skills and getting laid far more often. I'm the quiet one, the loner who reads hefty great science fiction tomes and watches the Discovery Channel instead of going out and setting fire to things, unlike the majority of my neighbourhood.
We were slightly early to the station, so I casually leant against the appropriate bit of otherwise blank wall in readiness. And fell backwards through it.
"Ow!" I looked up, and realised that just about the whole of Hogwarts was watching me. I had the presence of mind to turn this to my advantage. "Where am I?" I said, trying to sound confused. "W-what is this place?"
"Oh, no!" said a voice. "A Muggle's fallen through the barrier- Hold on a minute! You're Malone, the transfer student, aren't you?" There was gratifying laughter.
I got to my feet, and extended my hand to Professor McGonagall. "There goes a perfectly good joke," I remarked. "My father sends his regards, Professor, and hoped to be remembered to you."
"I see you have inherited his sense of humour," she remarked icily, though I glimpsed a faint sparkle of amusement in her eyes. "Try not to involve magic in your pranks, however." She wandered off to find Fran; I supposed she had been detailed to ensure we got on the train, something I imagine she could have done without. I scanned the platform, looking out for one face and hoping to hell I wouldn't see another. Both had seen me, of course.
In keeping with Sod's Law, it was Draco who reached me first. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, still the polite kid I remembered from Grandfather's funeral.
"Ministerial orders," I replied. "Wasn't Dad's idea, I can-"
"Don't you mention his name in front of me! He was a traitor to the family name, to the purity of magic!"
"Stow that eugenics crap, Draco," I snarled. "If you want to carry on with a blood feud, fine. What Uncle Lucius and my father said to each other doesn't matter a damn to me. If you want to harbour a grudge, though, be my guest." He growled and stalked off, muttering dire threats.
"Rick!" said Harry. "What are you here for? I haven't seen you since primary school! How come you never told me you were a wizard? And what the hell was all that about?"
"Well, in the approximate order you asked the questions: The Ministry won't let Dad teach me at home in the holidays any longer; if your uncle found out his boss was a wizard he'd have a stroke; and that little git is my cousin." It was question three that confused him the most.
"You're presumably aware of the Malfoy family's obsession with pure-bloods," I elaborated. "Dad decided to shove all that, got himself disinherited, and went off with a 'normal-born' girl he met in his seventh year- not necessarily in that order. The last thing Uncle Lucius said to him was that if they ever set eyes on each other again he'd chuck something Unforgivable Dad's way, and I'm not going to repeat Dad's reply, because here comes Fran. You remember my sister, don't you?" He nodded, trying to take it all in.
"Come on, the train's about to go," Harry said at last.
We chatted about shared experiences, teachers and run-ins with Dudley, which I'd only been spared after Dad was promoted over Vernon Dursley. Fran laughed, and told us about when she'd beaten him up and he'd been too ashamed to tell anybody, a fact which Harry gleefully catalogued for future use.
We found a compartment, and Harry introduced us to his friends. Ron had also apparently witnessed Draco's and my little altercation and sympathised. Fran was soon well into Step One of what she calls Fran's Instant Lesbian Creator, which she tends to use on girls I fancy; whinge about the shortcomings of men, preferably the one they're with (if applicable).
When I heard Hermione remark, "Honestly, I might as well have used my WAND with what Viktor's got!" I knew it was time to stroll off. By silent consensus, us three men retreated in a body.
"That's an international Quidditch player she's on about!" Ron remarked. "I think I ought to give Luna Lovegood some Extendable Ears!" I guessed he didn't think much of Viktor Krum or had a thing for Hermione, probably both.
"That was just the opening salvo," I replied, grimacing. "The real Sexuality Blitzkreig is still to come. And it works; she's got off with more girls than I have, not that THAT'S saying much!"
This last part had never made much sense to me. We both look almost identical, with nondescript brown hair and eyes somewhere between blue and grey. Maybe that's closer to ideals of female beauty rather than male attractiveness, I don't know.
Ron was staring at me like I'd produced a live hand grenade. I doubt he understood the Blitzkreig bit, but I think the rest was self-explanatory. I just half-smiled, and wandered off to find an empty compartment to change into my uniform.
Well, this promised to be an interesting term, I mused as I pulled on my robe. I dug out my broomstick and made it hover, checking the custom binding and enhanced bristles were OK, and stuffed it back into the enchanted suitcase. I saw Harry look at me oddly. "Don't take my mum on holiday without one!" I quipped.
"No, the broom. I've never seen that model before," he explained.
"No reason you should have. It's a '73 Silver Comet, with some pretty heavy modifications," I replied. "Put it like this. If brooms were cars, this little beauty would be a Ford Mustang with a V12 and nitrous installed." Harry, who I later discovered had been given The Fast And The Furious on video for his birthday by Mrs Figg from next door, whistled appreciatively.
"It belonged to my dad, you see. He played Beater in the Slytherin team, and won three cups with them on that thing. I'm looking forward to seeing how Draco's wussy little Nimbus does against it!" Actually, I had a fair idea. I'd had it up to ninety before air resistance pitched me off and put me in hospital for a week (I told them it was a scrambler bike accident) and the handling was amazing. If I didn't make it in wizardry then I'd join the RAF and go into fighters.
Ron had turned up from the Prefects-only compartment, and he insisted on having a look. My Silver Comet was a doer, not a looker, really; Oak handle, unpolished, and the new binding and bristles ruined the lines. Parked next to Harry's Firebolt and Ron's Cleansweep Nine nobody would nick mine unless they were REAL experts, and they'd have to be to get past the security measures on it, too.
At this point Draco happened to pass by, and had a good laugh at my expense when he saw my preferred mount.
"How old is THAT?" he laughed.
"The stick's about twenty years old; the rest of it I'm not sure about, Dad and I've spent so many weekends tuning it up I can't remember what age most of it is," I replied evenly. "It's only as good as the rider, though."
"Well, some time soon we'll just have to see how good you REALLY are, won't we?" he sneered.
"Three laps of the Quidditch pitch?" I suggested.
"Any time. Shall we put, say, ten Galleons on it?"
"Happily," I replied coolly. //I shall look forward to taking YOU down a few pegs, pal!// I added silently; he WAS a prefect, sadly, so I couldn't say it out loud. Or bop him one, which I had longed to do since I last saw him, refusing to even look at the four of us as we stood beside Grandfather's grave. Oh, he was his father's son, all right.
* * *
The Great Hall was just that; great. As in big, YOU know what I mean! Anyway.
The Sorting Hat was its usual, diconcerteningly talkative self, and 'Malone, Francis' and 'Malone, Richard' had to go through the ritual like the obviously terrified first years. Fran got Gryffindor, and I was rather hoping to be in the same house. We aren't twins, despite appearances; she was born a little over nine months after me (make of that what you will!), but we might as well be twins, the way we are.
"Hmmm," it said once it was my turn. "Well he's confident and a little reckless, but not arrogant, so that's Slytherin out..." I suppressed a grin at this little comment. "Brave, but not violent or aggressive, and compassionate. What else but... GRYFFINDOR!"
"Thanks," I said to it as I headed for the right table. I gave Draco a thumbs-up, which he answered with a flinty glare, and sat down between Fran and Harry.
Dumbledore gave his usual speech.
"Welcome back or, in the case of the first years, simply welcome to Hogwarts. Welcome also to two sixth years who are joining us from elsewhere." I reddened slightly.
"Nominations for a new Head Boy are to open shortly before the Christmas break, and any student in the sixth or seventh year may stand for election, subject to a consensus among the staff. The Forbidden Forest remains off-limits to all students valuing their limbs and other extremities, and please respect all Lights-Out regulations, as our caretaker is threatening industrial action over their violation.
"We have a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher; Professor Snape, who is also Potions Master. Other than that, I have only these words: Enjoy the Feast!"
"Snape," I mused, as the Feast appeared on the tables; neat trick, really. "Dad mentioned somebody by that name. They were quite good friends from what he tells me." Harry winced slightly, and I realised I'd made a big error; Dad had been quite vehement about James Potter. "Sorry, Harry," I added in an undertone.
"It's okay, it isn't your fault."
"Or yours," Fran added firmly. "Nobody can choose their parents; Dad couldn't, could he?"
We established ourselves in the dormitories, and I parked my broom in the sheds before looking to see what our first lesson was; Potions. Harry visibly wilted.
Professor Snape was not excessively sarcastic, remarkable given what Dad said of him.
"Malone," he said thoughfully. "I note that neither of you have joined your family's House, now that your father chooses to grace this establishment with your presence."
"I intend to place School before House, Sir," I replied, meeting his gaze. Grandfather Malfoy was worse than this man even after twenty years in Alchemy, a profession which leads you to be physically around mercury on a regular basis, and consequentally wind up mentally orbiting Neptune.
"Good," he replied, fractionally less glacially. "I trust you have learned well from your father?"
"He's taught us everything he ever learned in this room, sir," Fran replied; she'd got used to Grandfather Malfoy as well. "Though our mother taught us everything SHE learned, too."
He didn't need to say "Just as well," we knew as well as he did that Potions was Mum's specialty rather than Dad's.
Our first task was a relatively simple Blemish Removing draught, which we could ALL use at some stage. I'd spent several afternoons trying to perfect this one, with increasingly successful results; at least this time it didn't emit vile-smelling green smoke or corrode the cauldron. No way was either Neville (my partner in this lesson) or I going to try it on our own skin, though. Draco, to my great satisfaction, made a complete mess of it. Snape glared at him, rather belligerently. "Malfoy, need I remind you that your family is no longer in a position to buy you a new cauldron every few days? Please try to be a bit more careful." Even I felt a little sorry for Draco at that point; I'd made a point of not bringing it up, and so far as I was aware everybody else considered it a bit too below-the-belt as well.
Next up: DADA. Oh, joy!
"Well," Ron observed as we made our way there, "at least we know where we are with Snape."
"Yeah," Neville echoed. "I'm far from his number one fan, but at least he won't turn out to have you-know-who's face sticking out the back of his head or something, I'm certain of that." From my father's reminiscences about him, I felt that I'd rather reserve judgement.
"Is the position cursed or something?" I suggested. "By somebody who got sacked, maybe? Can anybody think of an ex-teacher with a grudge and a highly developed sense of irony?"
Snape had us practicing in the Room of Requirement; I suppose even he can get tired of setting stuff up every lesson. To my mild amusement, we were with Slytherin. Methinks that practical sessions would be approached with great enthusiasm.
Snape, who has a sense of humour in there somewhere, paired up Draco with me. Fran was up against some trollop called Pansy Parkinson, Draco's girlfriend. I didn't offer to swap partners.
"First of all," Snape informed us, "you will demonstrate such ability as you possess. I require ten minutes of freestyle one-to-one duelling, so that I may detect any shortcomings that require my attention. Given the remarkable, nay unpreccedented scores in this category of your OWLs I expect there to be very few. You may begin."
I immediately let fly a Stunner, but Draco blocked it and returned with something nasty that I'd never seen before, a burst of blue flame. Only much later did I discover that it was the same trick Hermione used to set Snape's robe on fire. I hurled myself to the right and rolled, came up with my wand pointed at him and let off a full Body Bind, catching him before he could defend himself or retaliate.
The fireworks were dying down, with an approximately equal number of Gryffindors and Slytherins down for the count. I did the counter-curse on Draco, and offered him a hand.
"Nice one. I got lucky with that one. Where'd you learn that blue flame trick? I've never seen that one before." Draco was unimpressed. He grabbed his wand and got up without a word. Snape was nodding thoughtfully. "Not at all bad," he remarked approvingly. "Even Longbottom has proved himself to be better than outright incompetent for a change." Neville took the back-handed compliment without any visible reaction. "When you are ready, you will begin once more."
THIS time, Draco was on form, catching me out with a blast of what felt like high voltage electricity. I was hurled almost to the other side of the classroom, landing painfully on my back in exactly the same way as I had in that unfortunate 'scrambler bike accident'. I was winded, but otherwise unharmed apart from bruises.
"Whoa," I wheezed, sitting up. "What was THAT one?" After that, I can't really remember much on account of Draco chucking a Stun spell at me, which is the magical equivalent of half a brick.
I awoke in bed in the Hospital Wing, with a bad head and an intense desire to belt Draco. If we'd been on the field of battle, fair enough; there's a time and a place for the Queensbury Rules, or whatever the equivalent is in magical duels. But in the classroom, when we were only supposed to be practicing?
"Ah, you're awake," Madam Pomphrey observed. //I'd noticed,// I thought to myself. "How are you feeling?"
"You know when I fell off my broom at ninety miles an hour? This is only slightly better," I replied. "I'm going to get him for this!"
"Your class already did," she replied, pointing to the next bed along. Draco was in residence, looking like he'd narrowly escaped being lynched. He gave me a curt nod.
"Shall we call this particular score settled, then?" I suggested. Another curt nod, which I suppose was better than nothing. Madam Pomphrey wandered off, and I sat up in bed.
"How did the lesson go?" I asked.
"Shut up." Oh well. I suppose I wouldn't be in a chatty mood if I'd just had the shit kicked out of me, either.
At morning break we both recieved a small crowd of visitors, both shooting malicious glances at each other and pretending they weren't there the rest of the time. My head started to hurt again after a while.
Harry left a bag of those horrible Every-Flavour beans, which I regarded with immense mistrust. Draco, I noticed, had nothing.
The bag landed on his bed. "I can never eat these things without worrying about whether the next one'll be something horrible," I explained. There was no reply, but he opened the bag, chose with care and popped one into his mouth. He winced, and spat it out.
"See what I mean?" I said, trying not to laugh. Draco, to my astonishment, began to laugh himself. "You won't believe what flavour that was," he said.
"I doubt I would like it if I knew, thanks. Still up for that broom tryout, by the way?"
"You bet, Ricky!" he replied, suddenly back to the Malfoy he usually was.
"Don't. Only my mother ever called me that, and SHE stopped when I was seven. And before you even THINK about it, the last person to call me Dick nearly lost his. Rick is fine," I said firmly, but without excessive vehemence. There was a thoughtful pause, and then:
"Grandfather always called you that."
"He wasn't the LAST person. I think it may have been some twerp called Piers Poltkiss; a friend of Harry's cousin if that gives you some idea. And anyway, Grandfather spent half his life breathing quicksilver fumes in some dusty little attic somewhere, and thought he was the reincarnation of Merlin."
Draco didn't laugh. "He was a really nice person when he was still right in the head." I nodded.
"That he was. He and my father didn't get on at all well, but he never took that out on me and Fran, or Mum. I disagreed with him about a lot of stuff, and I still do, but he was a good man by his own code."
"So was my father!" Draco added angrily.
"So's mine," I replied. "The difference being that one of them chose what happened to be the winning side." I paused. "Would you have chosen the same side, do you reckon?"
"What do you mean?"
"I read the right papers, and there's no way in hell the war isn't going to happen, and pretty damn soon as far as I can tell. Who are you cheering on?"
"Voldemort'll win." I didn't flinch at the Dark Lord's name; names aren't the problem, people are. "It doesn't matter which team we cheer on. Oh, it'll take a while, and maybe it'll get so bad the Muggles get wind of what's happening, but it's inevitable." I winced. 'Muggle' is considered a dirty word in my family.
"Don't be so sure," I replied. "Us non-magicals have our powers. Have you come across something called the atomic bomb? Powerful weapon, can level a city in a second and leave the ground poisoned with radiation for years after."
"Well, we'll just see. You know," he continued conversationally, "you could pick the winning side, instead of what you call the right one. You Gryffindors would say it's immoral, but I prefer the word pragmatic."
"I'm not taking the Dark Mark, if that's what you're trying to do," I replied. "But hell, the war hasn't started yet. Let's not start fighting it in the corridors, hmm? Let's let my dad and yours do the squabbling, and we can just sort of..." Maintain a sort of frosty silence? Have a go at making some sort of peace? I really wasn't sure, but somehow I couldn't hate him.
"I don't know if we'll ever be friends, but you're right; trying to kill each other before the war actually begins is a bit of a waste of time." Draco got out of bed, and offered his hand. "Detente?"
"A ceasefire at the very least," I replied, shaking the proffered hand. "But don't expect me to go easy on you on the Quidditch pitch!"
I returned to the dormitory in a contemplative mood, and set out to write home.
Dear Mum and Dad,
My first day has been... interesting, shall we say? Got Gryffindor, thank God. A surprising number of teachers hereare your old classmates. Professor Snape's taken over DADA as well as potions- remember him? Sarcastic, but a good teacher, and he has a mildly sadistic sense of humour. He paired me up with COUSIN DRACO, and then gave us ten minutes of freestyle against each other. We BOTH required medical attention afterwards; me for a Stunner when I was down, Draco for what the class did to him afterwards. We've negotiated some sort of a mutual non-aggression pact now, so at least I'm not going to end up killing him.
Please give a certain Mr Dursley a few subtle hints about where I am. His nephew may well benefit, and you'll certainly give that fatuous, obsequitious twerp something to think about!
Fran, being Fran, is becoming friendly with some girl called Hermione. 'Nuff said!
See you at Christmas,
Rick.
I groaned, and thumped the alarm clock. The first day of term, I decided, is the invention of Beelzebub. On the plus side, I was getting shot of Stonewalls at long last; my dad reckoned that going to a normal school during the day and home magic coaching would give us a grounding in both cultures. It made sense really; OWLs as well as GCSEs might come in handy.
Much to my father's regret, however, the Ministry had disagreed. They only found out during the summer holidays before what ought to have been our sixth year, and ill-tempered official letters were exchanged, culminating in me and my sister Francis being sent to Hogwarts this year.
I'd thought it might make a nice change, though it was less appealling at this hour of the morning. I'll skip the rather monotonous description of preparing for school, the last-minute panics and so forth because you probably go through the same thing.
Mum dropped us at the local station, where we would travel to King's Cross. For reasons which will be explained in the fullness of time, she didn't fancy running into fellow Hogwarts students and their parents (one specific set of parents, actually).
"Right, good luck, you two. Try not to get into any trouble," Mum warned us. I mentally translated this as 'Don't punch Draco Malfoy', and nodded. Fran gave Mum a hug, and we proceeded to the platform. Instead of the regulation trunks, we were carrying suitcases which Dad had performed some mildly illegal modifications on, and a holdall each.
"If the train's late..." Fran said nervously.
"It's a twenty minute journey and the train should come out on Platform Nine," I replied. "No way can it be THAT late, even in this country." Fran is the more easily worried of the two of us. Which is odd really, seeing as she is also the most outright reckless, as well as having better people skills and getting laid far more often. I'm the quiet one, the loner who reads hefty great science fiction tomes and watches the Discovery Channel instead of going out and setting fire to things, unlike the majority of my neighbourhood.
We were slightly early to the station, so I casually leant against the appropriate bit of otherwise blank wall in readiness. And fell backwards through it.
"Ow!" I looked up, and realised that just about the whole of Hogwarts was watching me. I had the presence of mind to turn this to my advantage. "Where am I?" I said, trying to sound confused. "W-what is this place?"
"Oh, no!" said a voice. "A Muggle's fallen through the barrier- Hold on a minute! You're Malone, the transfer student, aren't you?" There was gratifying laughter.
I got to my feet, and extended my hand to Professor McGonagall. "There goes a perfectly good joke," I remarked. "My father sends his regards, Professor, and hoped to be remembered to you."
"I see you have inherited his sense of humour," she remarked icily, though I glimpsed a faint sparkle of amusement in her eyes. "Try not to involve magic in your pranks, however." She wandered off to find Fran; I supposed she had been detailed to ensure we got on the train, something I imagine she could have done without. I scanned the platform, looking out for one face and hoping to hell I wouldn't see another. Both had seen me, of course.
In keeping with Sod's Law, it was Draco who reached me first. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, still the polite kid I remembered from Grandfather's funeral.
"Ministerial orders," I replied. "Wasn't Dad's idea, I can-"
"Don't you mention his name in front of me! He was a traitor to the family name, to the purity of magic!"
"Stow that eugenics crap, Draco," I snarled. "If you want to carry on with a blood feud, fine. What Uncle Lucius and my father said to each other doesn't matter a damn to me. If you want to harbour a grudge, though, be my guest." He growled and stalked off, muttering dire threats.
"Rick!" said Harry. "What are you here for? I haven't seen you since primary school! How come you never told me you were a wizard? And what the hell was all that about?"
"Well, in the approximate order you asked the questions: The Ministry won't let Dad teach me at home in the holidays any longer; if your uncle found out his boss was a wizard he'd have a stroke; and that little git is my cousin." It was question three that confused him the most.
"You're presumably aware of the Malfoy family's obsession with pure-bloods," I elaborated. "Dad decided to shove all that, got himself disinherited, and went off with a 'normal-born' girl he met in his seventh year- not necessarily in that order. The last thing Uncle Lucius said to him was that if they ever set eyes on each other again he'd chuck something Unforgivable Dad's way, and I'm not going to repeat Dad's reply, because here comes Fran. You remember my sister, don't you?" He nodded, trying to take it all in.
"Come on, the train's about to go," Harry said at last.
We chatted about shared experiences, teachers and run-ins with Dudley, which I'd only been spared after Dad was promoted over Vernon Dursley. Fran laughed, and told us about when she'd beaten him up and he'd been too ashamed to tell anybody, a fact which Harry gleefully catalogued for future use.
We found a compartment, and Harry introduced us to his friends. Ron had also apparently witnessed Draco's and my little altercation and sympathised. Fran was soon well into Step One of what she calls Fran's Instant Lesbian Creator, which she tends to use on girls I fancy; whinge about the shortcomings of men, preferably the one they're with (if applicable).
When I heard Hermione remark, "Honestly, I might as well have used my WAND with what Viktor's got!" I knew it was time to stroll off. By silent consensus, us three men retreated in a body.
"That's an international Quidditch player she's on about!" Ron remarked. "I think I ought to give Luna Lovegood some Extendable Ears!" I guessed he didn't think much of Viktor Krum or had a thing for Hermione, probably both.
"That was just the opening salvo," I replied, grimacing. "The real Sexuality Blitzkreig is still to come. And it works; she's got off with more girls than I have, not that THAT'S saying much!"
This last part had never made much sense to me. We both look almost identical, with nondescript brown hair and eyes somewhere between blue and grey. Maybe that's closer to ideals of female beauty rather than male attractiveness, I don't know.
Ron was staring at me like I'd produced a live hand grenade. I doubt he understood the Blitzkreig bit, but I think the rest was self-explanatory. I just half-smiled, and wandered off to find an empty compartment to change into my uniform.
Well, this promised to be an interesting term, I mused as I pulled on my robe. I dug out my broomstick and made it hover, checking the custom binding and enhanced bristles were OK, and stuffed it back into the enchanted suitcase. I saw Harry look at me oddly. "Don't take my mum on holiday without one!" I quipped.
"No, the broom. I've never seen that model before," he explained.
"No reason you should have. It's a '73 Silver Comet, with some pretty heavy modifications," I replied. "Put it like this. If brooms were cars, this little beauty would be a Ford Mustang with a V12 and nitrous installed." Harry, who I later discovered had been given The Fast And The Furious on video for his birthday by Mrs Figg from next door, whistled appreciatively.
"It belonged to my dad, you see. He played Beater in the Slytherin team, and won three cups with them on that thing. I'm looking forward to seeing how Draco's wussy little Nimbus does against it!" Actually, I had a fair idea. I'd had it up to ninety before air resistance pitched me off and put me in hospital for a week (I told them it was a scrambler bike accident) and the handling was amazing. If I didn't make it in wizardry then I'd join the RAF and go into fighters.
Ron had turned up from the Prefects-only compartment, and he insisted on having a look. My Silver Comet was a doer, not a looker, really; Oak handle, unpolished, and the new binding and bristles ruined the lines. Parked next to Harry's Firebolt and Ron's Cleansweep Nine nobody would nick mine unless they were REAL experts, and they'd have to be to get past the security measures on it, too.
At this point Draco happened to pass by, and had a good laugh at my expense when he saw my preferred mount.
"How old is THAT?" he laughed.
"The stick's about twenty years old; the rest of it I'm not sure about, Dad and I've spent so many weekends tuning it up I can't remember what age most of it is," I replied evenly. "It's only as good as the rider, though."
"Well, some time soon we'll just have to see how good you REALLY are, won't we?" he sneered.
"Three laps of the Quidditch pitch?" I suggested.
"Any time. Shall we put, say, ten Galleons on it?"
"Happily," I replied coolly. //I shall look forward to taking YOU down a few pegs, pal!// I added silently; he WAS a prefect, sadly, so I couldn't say it out loud. Or bop him one, which I had longed to do since I last saw him, refusing to even look at the four of us as we stood beside Grandfather's grave. Oh, he was his father's son, all right.
* * *
The Great Hall was just that; great. As in big, YOU know what I mean! Anyway.
The Sorting Hat was its usual, diconcerteningly talkative self, and 'Malone, Francis' and 'Malone, Richard' had to go through the ritual like the obviously terrified first years. Fran got Gryffindor, and I was rather hoping to be in the same house. We aren't twins, despite appearances; she was born a little over nine months after me (make of that what you will!), but we might as well be twins, the way we are.
"Hmmm," it said once it was my turn. "Well he's confident and a little reckless, but not arrogant, so that's Slytherin out..." I suppressed a grin at this little comment. "Brave, but not violent or aggressive, and compassionate. What else but... GRYFFINDOR!"
"Thanks," I said to it as I headed for the right table. I gave Draco a thumbs-up, which he answered with a flinty glare, and sat down between Fran and Harry.
Dumbledore gave his usual speech.
"Welcome back or, in the case of the first years, simply welcome to Hogwarts. Welcome also to two sixth years who are joining us from elsewhere." I reddened slightly.
"Nominations for a new Head Boy are to open shortly before the Christmas break, and any student in the sixth or seventh year may stand for election, subject to a consensus among the staff. The Forbidden Forest remains off-limits to all students valuing their limbs and other extremities, and please respect all Lights-Out regulations, as our caretaker is threatening industrial action over their violation.
"We have a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher; Professor Snape, who is also Potions Master. Other than that, I have only these words: Enjoy the Feast!"
"Snape," I mused, as the Feast appeared on the tables; neat trick, really. "Dad mentioned somebody by that name. They were quite good friends from what he tells me." Harry winced slightly, and I realised I'd made a big error; Dad had been quite vehement about James Potter. "Sorry, Harry," I added in an undertone.
"It's okay, it isn't your fault."
"Or yours," Fran added firmly. "Nobody can choose their parents; Dad couldn't, could he?"
We established ourselves in the dormitories, and I parked my broom in the sheds before looking to see what our first lesson was; Potions. Harry visibly wilted.
Professor Snape was not excessively sarcastic, remarkable given what Dad said of him.
"Malone," he said thoughfully. "I note that neither of you have joined your family's House, now that your father chooses to grace this establishment with your presence."
"I intend to place School before House, Sir," I replied, meeting his gaze. Grandfather Malfoy was worse than this man even after twenty years in Alchemy, a profession which leads you to be physically around mercury on a regular basis, and consequentally wind up mentally orbiting Neptune.
"Good," he replied, fractionally less glacially. "I trust you have learned well from your father?"
"He's taught us everything he ever learned in this room, sir," Fran replied; she'd got used to Grandfather Malfoy as well. "Though our mother taught us everything SHE learned, too."
He didn't need to say "Just as well," we knew as well as he did that Potions was Mum's specialty rather than Dad's.
Our first task was a relatively simple Blemish Removing draught, which we could ALL use at some stage. I'd spent several afternoons trying to perfect this one, with increasingly successful results; at least this time it didn't emit vile-smelling green smoke or corrode the cauldron. No way was either Neville (my partner in this lesson) or I going to try it on our own skin, though. Draco, to my great satisfaction, made a complete mess of it. Snape glared at him, rather belligerently. "Malfoy, need I remind you that your family is no longer in a position to buy you a new cauldron every few days? Please try to be a bit more careful." Even I felt a little sorry for Draco at that point; I'd made a point of not bringing it up, and so far as I was aware everybody else considered it a bit too below-the-belt as well.
Next up: DADA. Oh, joy!
"Well," Ron observed as we made our way there, "at least we know where we are with Snape."
"Yeah," Neville echoed. "I'm far from his number one fan, but at least he won't turn out to have you-know-who's face sticking out the back of his head or something, I'm certain of that." From my father's reminiscences about him, I felt that I'd rather reserve judgement.
"Is the position cursed or something?" I suggested. "By somebody who got sacked, maybe? Can anybody think of an ex-teacher with a grudge and a highly developed sense of irony?"
Snape had us practicing in the Room of Requirement; I suppose even he can get tired of setting stuff up every lesson. To my mild amusement, we were with Slytherin. Methinks that practical sessions would be approached with great enthusiasm.
Snape, who has a sense of humour in there somewhere, paired up Draco with me. Fran was up against some trollop called Pansy Parkinson, Draco's girlfriend. I didn't offer to swap partners.
"First of all," Snape informed us, "you will demonstrate such ability as you possess. I require ten minutes of freestyle one-to-one duelling, so that I may detect any shortcomings that require my attention. Given the remarkable, nay unpreccedented scores in this category of your OWLs I expect there to be very few. You may begin."
I immediately let fly a Stunner, but Draco blocked it and returned with something nasty that I'd never seen before, a burst of blue flame. Only much later did I discover that it was the same trick Hermione used to set Snape's robe on fire. I hurled myself to the right and rolled, came up with my wand pointed at him and let off a full Body Bind, catching him before he could defend himself or retaliate.
The fireworks were dying down, with an approximately equal number of Gryffindors and Slytherins down for the count. I did the counter-curse on Draco, and offered him a hand.
"Nice one. I got lucky with that one. Where'd you learn that blue flame trick? I've never seen that one before." Draco was unimpressed. He grabbed his wand and got up without a word. Snape was nodding thoughtfully. "Not at all bad," he remarked approvingly. "Even Longbottom has proved himself to be better than outright incompetent for a change." Neville took the back-handed compliment without any visible reaction. "When you are ready, you will begin once more."
THIS time, Draco was on form, catching me out with a blast of what felt like high voltage electricity. I was hurled almost to the other side of the classroom, landing painfully on my back in exactly the same way as I had in that unfortunate 'scrambler bike accident'. I was winded, but otherwise unharmed apart from bruises.
"Whoa," I wheezed, sitting up. "What was THAT one?" After that, I can't really remember much on account of Draco chucking a Stun spell at me, which is the magical equivalent of half a brick.
I awoke in bed in the Hospital Wing, with a bad head and an intense desire to belt Draco. If we'd been on the field of battle, fair enough; there's a time and a place for the Queensbury Rules, or whatever the equivalent is in magical duels. But in the classroom, when we were only supposed to be practicing?
"Ah, you're awake," Madam Pomphrey observed. //I'd noticed,// I thought to myself. "How are you feeling?"
"You know when I fell off my broom at ninety miles an hour? This is only slightly better," I replied. "I'm going to get him for this!"
"Your class already did," she replied, pointing to the next bed along. Draco was in residence, looking like he'd narrowly escaped being lynched. He gave me a curt nod.
"Shall we call this particular score settled, then?" I suggested. Another curt nod, which I suppose was better than nothing. Madam Pomphrey wandered off, and I sat up in bed.
"How did the lesson go?" I asked.
"Shut up." Oh well. I suppose I wouldn't be in a chatty mood if I'd just had the shit kicked out of me, either.
At morning break we both recieved a small crowd of visitors, both shooting malicious glances at each other and pretending they weren't there the rest of the time. My head started to hurt again after a while.
Harry left a bag of those horrible Every-Flavour beans, which I regarded with immense mistrust. Draco, I noticed, had nothing.
The bag landed on his bed. "I can never eat these things without worrying about whether the next one'll be something horrible," I explained. There was no reply, but he opened the bag, chose with care and popped one into his mouth. He winced, and spat it out.
"See what I mean?" I said, trying not to laugh. Draco, to my astonishment, began to laugh himself. "You won't believe what flavour that was," he said.
"I doubt I would like it if I knew, thanks. Still up for that broom tryout, by the way?"
"You bet, Ricky!" he replied, suddenly back to the Malfoy he usually was.
"Don't. Only my mother ever called me that, and SHE stopped when I was seven. And before you even THINK about it, the last person to call me Dick nearly lost his. Rick is fine," I said firmly, but without excessive vehemence. There was a thoughtful pause, and then:
"Grandfather always called you that."
"He wasn't the LAST person. I think it may have been some twerp called Piers Poltkiss; a friend of Harry's cousin if that gives you some idea. And anyway, Grandfather spent half his life breathing quicksilver fumes in some dusty little attic somewhere, and thought he was the reincarnation of Merlin."
Draco didn't laugh. "He was a really nice person when he was still right in the head." I nodded.
"That he was. He and my father didn't get on at all well, but he never took that out on me and Fran, or Mum. I disagreed with him about a lot of stuff, and I still do, but he was a good man by his own code."
"So was my father!" Draco added angrily.
"So's mine," I replied. "The difference being that one of them chose what happened to be the winning side." I paused. "Would you have chosen the same side, do you reckon?"
"What do you mean?"
"I read the right papers, and there's no way in hell the war isn't going to happen, and pretty damn soon as far as I can tell. Who are you cheering on?"
"Voldemort'll win." I didn't flinch at the Dark Lord's name; names aren't the problem, people are. "It doesn't matter which team we cheer on. Oh, it'll take a while, and maybe it'll get so bad the Muggles get wind of what's happening, but it's inevitable." I winced. 'Muggle' is considered a dirty word in my family.
"Don't be so sure," I replied. "Us non-magicals have our powers. Have you come across something called the atomic bomb? Powerful weapon, can level a city in a second and leave the ground poisoned with radiation for years after."
"Well, we'll just see. You know," he continued conversationally, "you could pick the winning side, instead of what you call the right one. You Gryffindors would say it's immoral, but I prefer the word pragmatic."
"I'm not taking the Dark Mark, if that's what you're trying to do," I replied. "But hell, the war hasn't started yet. Let's not start fighting it in the corridors, hmm? Let's let my dad and yours do the squabbling, and we can just sort of..." Maintain a sort of frosty silence? Have a go at making some sort of peace? I really wasn't sure, but somehow I couldn't hate him.
"I don't know if we'll ever be friends, but you're right; trying to kill each other before the war actually begins is a bit of a waste of time." Draco got out of bed, and offered his hand. "Detente?"
"A ceasefire at the very least," I replied, shaking the proffered hand. "But don't expect me to go easy on you on the Quidditch pitch!"
I returned to the dormitory in a contemplative mood, and set out to write home.
Dear Mum and Dad,
My first day has been... interesting, shall we say? Got Gryffindor, thank God. A surprising number of teachers hereare your old classmates. Professor Snape's taken over DADA as well as potions- remember him? Sarcastic, but a good teacher, and he has a mildly sadistic sense of humour. He paired me up with COUSIN DRACO, and then gave us ten minutes of freestyle against each other. We BOTH required medical attention afterwards; me for a Stunner when I was down, Draco for what the class did to him afterwards. We've negotiated some sort of a mutual non-aggression pact now, so at least I'm not going to end up killing him.
Please give a certain Mr Dursley a few subtle hints about where I am. His nephew may well benefit, and you'll certainly give that fatuous, obsequitious twerp something to think about!
Fran, being Fran, is becoming friendly with some girl called Hermione. 'Nuff said!
See you at Christmas,
Rick.