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Benevolence
Summary: She provided a sympathetic ear, albeit one with radishes dangling from it.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
First Harry Potter fanfic! Never thought I could post something here... there are so many amazing authors in this fandom!
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He is falling, falling...
His arm burns.
Draco Malfoy is sick of life. And oh, so tired.
His arm is still burning, but only because of his clenched grip on the Dark Mark branded on his skin.
"I have a special mission, you know..." he remembers drawling on the train to Hogwarts, young and inexperienced and with no idea of the horrors he would face...
Draco's hand tightens on his proof of fealty, initially considered a medal of honour, now a burden with a painful curse. For Draco finally understands what it means to fear the Dark side.
The Death Eaters are much like any other organisation, with intrigue and back stabbing made worse by the members' vicious natures. Not surprising, as the price for even the slightest miscalculation is fall from grace (oh, Draco has so much experience with that…) or torture; and failure means death.
Too many things have happened since that fateful day; from desperate half-baked plans to kill a seemingly omniscient wizard, unwanted assistance and meddling, to said omniscient wizard's death, escape from prosecution, to the rise of the Dark Lord. One year is a short time to grow up, and his sudden maturity encumbers him like an ill-fitting suit; a shabby, wrinkled facade; but still better than baring himself for all to see. (Confiding in a ghost, and a mud-blood at that… how the mighty have fallen.)
School is not much fun, really. The mentally unstable teachers and horrific punishments take prime bully rights; small fry like Malfoy are not worth a second glance. Draco is no longer the leader of the Slytherins, after all; after his quite inglorious failure up on the Astronomy tower. His family's fortunes have similarly declined; the Malfoys no longer have the pull to upkeep Draco's previous almost-royalty status in the Slytherin house.
He would have stayed at home, really, if given a choice. But the new regulations make attendance compulsory; and indeed, Narcissa would not have it otherwise. Home was not a safe place to be; infested with Death Eaters (over whom his father no longer held any sway) and worse scum (Fenrir Greyback), ruled by the iron fist and dragon-heartstring wand of his insane aunt, and current residence of the Dark Lord himself. Narcissa fears their incomprehensible leader may suddenly change his mind and declare the Malfoys unfit to live for their failures to his cause.
With the upheavals in the Castle halls, Draco takes to wandering in the Forbidden Forest. The solace provided the towering trees helps clear his mind and keep him sane. The absence of snide glares and outright disdain is merely an added bonus.
It is pure chance that he meets the Thestrals.
When the oaf Hagrid had first taken a class on the winged carriage beasts, Draco had been jealous of those who could see them. His feelings could not have been more disillusioned. They were leathery, reptilian, repulsive creatures; simultaneously terrifying and pitiful. Draco would give anything to erase the murder (and subsequent consumption) of Charity Burbage from his overburdened mind.
But Draco's disgust does not keep him from seeking the sanctuary of these omens of death; a place of calm and silence is too hard to find these days. (The Room of Requirement holds too many memories to be an area of reprieve, no matter how much the chamber shape-shifts.)
He keeps returning to the creatures, because they are just as dead inside as he is, and show it just as pathetically.
With the beasts, he entertains fancies, outlandish dreams to escape where no one can find him, perhaps take his mother and father as well.
If only he could be the skeletal beasts' only visitor.
But alas! Loony Lovegood.
His lip curls in disgust. She is part of Potter's crew, and probably as glorious heroic and righteous as the rest of them, though this particular one is reputed to be rather strange. He did not know she feeds the creatures; otherwise he would never have come.
Surprisingly, she does not ask him to leave, maintaining only ambivalent silence as she offered gory chunks of raw meat to the expectant sharp teeth.
He expects her to mock him, to scorn his fall from favour, as indeed those of his own ilk take great pleasure in doing. Or perhaps she would throw accusations his way; would she be daring enough to point her wand at him?
"Don't you hate me?" he blurts out after an almost-comfortable silence. It is a terribly substandard display of his normally loquacious nature, since Draco has not had people (former fawning admirers, now giving the cold-shoulder, or worse, insult) listening to him for a while.
She turns her huge orbs at him, considering his childish question with thoughtful seriousness. "I don't need to, I think", she replies after a moment of careful consideration, "You seem to hate yourself enough."
"I do not." Draco protests, yet her words ring true and his shame only builds. He was Draco Malfoy, he did not bother with the trifling observations of insignificant righteous girls. And who was she to tell him how he felt?
"You may think yourself a failure, a monster... But remember, Draco, the worst people are those who do not acknowledge their wrong-doings and feel no guilt for their actions."
The words seem to soothe him, though their implications should have made him seethe instead. He finds himself almost unclenching his fists and relaxing in her company, when she speaks again,
"I don't think Professor Dumbledore would have blamed you either."
Whatever lukewarm tolerance he had developed evaporated instantly, leaving behind the chilly aftermath of desperation and mourning. It was too soon, too sudden; Draco is not ready to think about the old headmaster yet, much less talk about it.
He leaves the clearing, and he decides never to show weakness to a Ravenclaw girl again. Twice is already too much.
…
His reprieve is short-lived; their reunion is as bitterly unpleasant as their first and only meeting.
The setting is macabre enough; the dungeons of Malfoy manor were built for quite different purposes than those of Hogwarts. Luna makes an appropriately distressing figure, chained to the wall and seated on dust and grime. Her voice is dry and raspy, so unlike the sedate dreamy lilt he associated with her self-assured banter.
He had not expected to see her here. He had not wanted to see her (or anyone he knew, for that matter) here; except perhaps the bloke who tried to break Draco's nose when his parents weren't looking.
But here she is, huddled up with the ancient wand-maker and his equally eccentric company, offering words of comfort and reassurance to the old man. Draco bristles at that; the only comfort she had offered him was odd, incomprehensible advice and wordless company. He shakes his head; dismissing her from his mind. What did the girl matter anyway?
Nevertheless, he finds himself treading down to the dungeons more often, even though he hates the place, and it is Wormtail's duty to watch over the prisoners (the Malfoys have not yet been downgraded to servants, though their star has diminished plenty).
"There is no other way, no choice. There is nothing I can do." he finds himself mumbling, almost to himself, as he runs his wand over the worst of her bruises, fixedly not contemplating how her wounds came to be.
He hates the fact that she does not judge him, blame him, even for being a silent spectator to her sufferings. Oh, and she suffers; he knows what Bellatrix (repulsive raving creature) is capable of, and he can't help marvel that she doesn't scream her pain or cry for help.
(Later, he remembers that even Hermione screamed, so shrill that it seemed like glasses broke and embedded themselves in his heart; but the blonde girl took days and weeks of the same torture without a sound from her lips.)
Perhaps she is past caring. Perhaps she is broken, like Draco thinks he is. Either way, he doubts she even hears him or realizes that the one she preached to so long ago now treats her injuries as she languishes in death's palace. Her voice, when she finally employs it, startles him so much that he backs away like a frightened rabbit.
"Oh, Draco..." She murmurs, staring unblinking, solemn and apathetic, almost as if her captivity doesn't bother her. "There is always a choice." She meets his eyes with inner confidence Draco can't help but envy, and even admire. He is standing unbound with she kneels in fetters; but he feels it is he who is at her mercy.
He had hesitated once before, swayed by words and weak emotions; by accepting Dumbledore's gracious 'choice', his last hope of redeemed glory had fallen with the old wizard's broken body. No, he thinks bitterly, there is no choice.
…
After the war
The house of Malfoy no longer commands the respect it used to, but Draco does not mind. He has had enough of the spotlight, both admiring and loathing (the former type now almost non-existent), to know that emotions are fickle and people are almost entirely self-serving; just like himself, really.
"Who cares what you think? I don't take your orders no more, Draco. You an' your dad are finished."
Well, he had been foolish to trust those morons in the first place. Such an amazing thing, retrospect. Even so, Draco could not help the tiny prick of regret (only tiny; let it be known he was no Potter, no matter how converted he was) at the thought of Crabbe; blusterous, obese Crabbe, killed by his own uncontrollable Fiendfyre.
The Malfoys have reformed, somewhat; though Lucius still yearns for the old ways. He does not dare voice it out loud, of course; for the revamped Ministry is wary and ever-watchful of its former enemies (with good reason; for Death Eaters enjoying luxurious lives in the grey areas of law find it hard to cope with their fall from grace and galleons).
They have no house elves now (Traitor Dobby, so doggedly loyal to muggle-born champion Potter, dying for his precious 'friend'…). Draco had been adamant on this; his short time in service of the Dark Lord has shown him the claustrophobia and helplessness of unquestionable obedience. Also, it might earn him points with the illustrious Hermione Granger, who climbs through the ranks swifter than any other in wizarding history.
Draco always took free will for granted (and abused it far too often), assured as he was of his superior status. But now he cherishes what he has; for it is much, much more than anything he dreamed of, barricaded in the room of requirement in his sixth year, desperately trying to make the twin wardrobes work, gruesome images of his tortured family flitting in front of his eyes. No, Draco has reformed; no more will he take for granted the little things that made pure-bloods the bigots they are. (See? He has reformed; because it's the thought that counts, after all...)
The Malfoy manor, once obscene in its opulence, now feels empty, without the stomping of Fenrir Greyback's filthy boots or murmurs of Death Eaters in the corridors or Aunt Bella's shrill commands. (It is rather fitting that the champion of the Dark Lord should be defeated by the greatest blood-traitors of all). The manor feels no less safe, though; and Draco still watches the shadows for a humongous snake out in search of fresh meat.
Would Voldemort have minded if the reptile nourished itself on a Death Eater or two? Draco thinks not; after all, if the snake was indeed a Horcrux, a portion of the Dark Lord's soul (Draco shudders. Dark magic. Darker than the Fiendfyre that burned Crabbe's life; darker than he could ever imagine, darker than he would ever want to imagine…), then surely he would put his Horcrux's well-being over that of his followers. The snake-like face had never shown an iota of comradeship or concern for his servants, after all.
The conference chamber that once headquartered the entire Dark movement sits permanently closed; no one dares venture. Draco tries, once; a childish notion of facing his fears, to free himself from sudden seizures and recurring nightmares… but he can still see the body of the poor Muggle Studies professor on the massive table, and the snake slithering excitedly to gorge on the still-warm corpse…
Draco spends the afternoon retching miserably, and at the end he even begins to feel sorry for his raucous laughter at the Weasel's backfired hex back in the second year. (Ronald Weasley, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Sports, still Weasel… old habits die hard)
They still have a decent amount of their substantial fortune; but there are few things they need that gold can buy: trust for one, a fresh start for another. It is clear that Lucius will not get another job; no one is willing to employ an ex-Azkaban convict. (The New Order claims itself fair; that is does not discriminate based on past allegiances; or more specifically, the Dark Mark. But there are other ways…) Draco's father had been a public figure, rubbing shoulders with the high-brows and throwing his weight about. (oh, so long ago... the Minister's box at Quidditch…) With all the criticism of his time on the Hogwarts board and in the Wizengamot, and the renewed audit of the Malfoy finances, the accusations of bribery and corruption, Draco believes Lucius should count his blessings and hope he is not carted back to Azkaban.
Draco gets a job with the poisons and dark potions subdivision of the aurors department. He had always been good at Snape's class, after all. (Though Slughorn was too busy salivating over Potter to notice, Draco added snidely). Draco has some skill in the area; Snape's lessons was not all favortism, though there was a good deal of boot-licking and favour-exchanging.
(Snape was working for Dumbledore all along, but still made an unbreakable vow to protect Draco... what does that say about character? …It appears everyone has an inner Potter buried in their blackened hearts, even among the snake-tattooed Dark side.)
Instinctively recalling flyaway blonde hair and frazzled eccentric robes, Draco muses over the so-called criteria for monstrosity. Remorse. Hadn't Potter said something similar to the Dark Lord?
Potter (Head Auror, golden boy, first in line for the Minister of Magic position) makes life a little easier for him at work; no one targets Draco because of his former Death Eater status. There are no insults or taunts to his face, though sly comments abound in sleazy corners where the golden light does not shine. But there are others who understand, who accept Draco's tenacity and sincerity; soft-hearted friendlies who believe in second chances. Once Draco might have scoffed at the Hufflepuff-ish attitude; now he accepts all he gets. He isn't popular enough to be invited to the monthly pub visits or Quidditch matches; but at least he isn't ostracized for his past. (And really, he had been so naive, believing the Dark Mark to be all glamour and status)
…
Lucius does not live long. It is hardly surprising; Azkaban and the Dark Lord took their toll. Draco's mother seems relieved, almost; trusting a higher power to care for her husband's journey into the afterlife. (Death before disgrace… wasn't that a pureblood motto?)
After Lucius dies, Draco sells off house and old heirlooms. It has too many unpleasant memories, and it holds no familial pride in his eyes. After all, the cellars were makeshift dungeons, the library was full of books on Dark Arts (several supposedly confiscated), and the conference chamber… the whole house was a deathbed; countless had perished within these walls, all for the cause…
Draco purchases a modest apartment in a muggle suburb. Once, he might have been revolted at the idea of sharing his breathing air with dirty plebeians; now the absence of familiar faces and scornful looks is a relief.
Draco's mother has made peace with her living sister; spending most of her days with Andromeda and her grandchild (Potter's godchild), the last ones to have borne the noble name of Black. Narcissa makes sure to Draco company for special occasions, like his birthday and the anniversary of Lucius' death. She is pale and sickly, her beautiful hair mostly unkempt, but she is not as harassed and terrified as she used to be, subservient to her insane sister and de-facto prisoner in her own house. Sometimes, a half-wistfulness overtakes her features, lost in remniscence of times before; but for most part, she is happy with her new life.
The Malfoy finances are in good shape; despite their sudden decline in income. While not enough for an extravagant living, it is not something to feel concern about. Finding a buyer for the house is difficult, because it is the abode of a known (former) Death Eater of the highest ranks (Draco scoffs. They believed the Malfoys were royalty among the cutthroats and swindlers; the fools do not know the cloud of fear that hung over their heads and under their eyes). But still, it is prime wizarding property in the wealthiest of localities; reluctant buyers make half-hearted offers, hesitant to transact with those of the Dark Side (no matter that the Dark Side is no more, utterly vanquished). The price is a little less than reasonable, but Draco is relieved to sell. The buyer plans to demolish his childhood home -his legacy, his father's ego- and build an apartment complex in its place. Draco stubbornly refuses to examine how he feels abou that.
Draco does not need the money, does not want it, for fear that it would feed grand illusions of lavish days, of elevated status and noble lineage. No, better to be the thin, nondescript cauldron-stirrer who made an honest and utterly uneventful living. No forbidden magic, no Dark Mark, no delicate balance with lives hanging by a thread…
Draco wants no sickle of his inheritance, so he considers something saintly (Potter-worthy), like giving it to charity. Then suddenly, he remembers a strange girl with too large eyes and even stranger beliefs.
The next week, the Quibbler receives a substantial anonymous donation with no apportionment or bequest instructions. Luna Lovegood smiles dreamily as she plans an expedition to search for Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.
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This pairing makes for excellent humor; evidenced by the truly hilarious Dracuna fics on this site. That said, I have no idea how this fic turned out so depressing...
Oh well. Enjoy! (Or cry, or whatever... you are welcome to be confused. I certainly was.) Also, this turned out much longer than I expected...
BTW, Luna and Moaning Myrtle are both Ravenclaws... hehe, interesting idea, no?
The Harry Potter Wiki does not confirm whether or not Draco attended Hogwarts in his seventh year, so I've made a bit of an assumption there.
If you like my writing style, please check out my other works!