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TWO DAYS LATER
MONDAY
"Have a good day," Narcissa looked over her son with a careful eye. His white and red tie was perfect and the rest of the uniform clean and pristine, as always. His jacket was secure, bags and lunch pail clean and full of necessities. She looked at the muscle bound guard and they exchanged a nod.
"I shall see you this afternoon mother," Draco stood on tip and she bent down to receive her kiss on the cheek. He and the guard walked out and entered the black Mercedes that idled patiently in the drive.
Narcissa waited until the car cleared the drive before she turned back into her home. Lucius had gone not twenty minutes ago and now she was alone in the house until her duties called her away.
She was usually commissioned to plan and execute the grand parties and balls of the royal family and politicians in London. Narcissa smiled, people thought she just slacked off all day, why, if that were the case she would be a fat, piggish woman and most likely bald.
The very thought was distressing. She left it in the hall and swept into her study. A large oil painting of her son stood proud above the glowing fireplace. He was eight in the painting and already a dazzling young man. She smiled, how Lucius loved to brag that Draco was his boy. 'Just look at us,' he would shout and press their cheeks together. It was true; Draco took after his father in most every way. The hair, skin, eyes, build, and intelligence, if she did not know better Lucius could have cloned himself.
Narcissa was quite proud, though, of the distinct impression she made on her son. Where Lucius was sharp and squared her son was softer and curved. Draco had his mother's feminine grace and elegance, like a small angel. Lucius did not mind though, he thought his son to be his greatest achievement.
"Come in," she responded to the knock and turned to see Petunia Dursley at the door to her study.
Narcissa controlled her urge to have the woman removed.
"Ah, Petunia, what may I help you with?"
Petunia flew in at the question; she seated herself without having been asked and had a servant bring her tea and a croissant.
"Well?" Narcissa roamed around to her desk and slid into the dark chair.
"It came as quite a shock, you know, to hear someone's called for a secret ballot at the next PTA meeting," Petunia said and sipped the tea.
Narcissa did not have the patience for this woman. It was barely eight AM and she would speak until eight PM if she was not stopped, immediately.
"Petunia, I'm sure they mean well, whoever they are," she stood again and gave a small gesture to her assistant. "I have a meeting in London and really must leave. We'll speak at the next meeting."
Petunia made an odd, squawking noise and she escorted from the room and house all together. It was not so much an escort as she was hoisted from her chair and dragged out the door.
"Good day, madam," the guard nodded, not politely mind you, to her and then shut the door.
Narcissa looked around; it was rare that she was so rude.
"Good morning class," Madam Lavore stood before her class with her hands clasped before her. "What shall we begin with?" she asked herself and peered at her class.
The front row was full of the smaller children or those with glasses. The silent little Potter boy was in the front corner, by the window and he was often caught staring across the dark green lawn or at the sky. Farther back sat the larger children or those who simply had the authority to choose their own place.
Draco Malfoy chose his. Centre back, second to last row. He shared a work station with that odd Zabini boy. Blaise was his name. He was taller than most of the children and he had a dancer's build, long legs and arms and a long neck, beautiful ebony skin and wild black hair.
Across the aisle sat the Parkinson heiress, she was sharp witted and very intelligent. She knew the only way she could contend with the boys of her class was to be as smart and as ruthlessly witty as they. She sat with Theodore Nott. Theo was a shy child who kept mostly to himself but scored nearly perfectly on every test. Madam Lavore found that odd but let it be.
Vincent and Gregory sat to the other side of Draco and Blaise. They were large and lumbering and seemed to be the muscle of the group. Their test scores reflected that assumption but they seemed to offer more than that.
Madam Lavore gave a small smile as the silly little red haired boy rushed in late, as usual.
Draco watched him, head cocked to the side, and smirked as he took his seat just behind, in the last row. Ronald Weasley was the youngest brother of seven children. His family lived close to the bottom of the hill and wore second hand uniforms and brought their lunches in paper sacks. His mother was a darling woman though and he was not too bad himself. Draco turned and raised his eyebrows, waiting an explanation.
"Fred and George set off a stink-bomb in the house," Ron breathed between words, he was flushed from running up the stairs.
"Ah," Draco turned back to the front of the room.
Madam had begun to write on the board in her rigid, cursive writing and was uttering some nonsense about changing the times for lunch and play. Draco tuned her out and found his book. Blaise pulled out a heavy copy of a historical journal and began reading as well.
Much of Madam Lavore's year fives were self learners. The Winter children, for that is what children who lived in the Winter Estates were called, usually taught themselves. They read or wrote or did work during class while some students, Ron for instance, tried desperately to keep up with that woman and her tangents and misfiring questions.
An hour or two later Draco glanced up from his translation and the only thing that caught his eye was the small Potter boy in the front corner. He was that wretched whale-boy's cousin. They did not look a thing like each other.
This boy, Harry, was very fragile looking, like one of the porcelain dolls Pansy's grandmother bought her. They sat on the shelf, wide eyed, and watched the world passively, untouchable. Draco liked the boy, he was fascinating. At play time Harry sat in the patches of clover and searched out ones with four-leaves or he sat inside and read. Draco thought this odd, he and his friends would play, as children did. They would talk to the other year fours from Madam Cush's class.
Draco thought the way he moved, so timidly, was charming, almost adorable but Draco hated the word and refused to apply it.
Harry felt the eyes on him but was scared to turn around and face them. It could be Goyle or Crabbe and, though they'd never spoken before, the two large boys could want something to hit.
Draco continued to stare and think the boy over. Madam clapped her hands together and broke his attention.
"It is time for silent write time," she called.
The students pulled notebooks from their bags and flipped open to new pages. Harry looked out the window for inspiration but found none. For days now he was left staring a lined sheet of paper with nothing to write about. The words abandoned him.
He muttered a curse and stared at the lines, willing them to swirl up unto letters or an image. Finally he jotted down some horrid adjective riddled poem and closed the notebook. Madam scolded children who had nothing to show for silent writing time.
Harry felt it safe to look behind him. Crabbe and Goyle were concentrating on their writing but someone else was watching Harry.
The Malfoy son. The Winter Child.
Harry caught his steel colored eyes, they locked for a second before Harry turned quickly away.
Draco saw this, raised one brow and turned back to his prose. It was the story of a man, a powerful Lord, falling from power to poverty and finding himself living off the grace of a seer with eyes the color of jewels. It was an interesting distraction from translations and arithmetic and geology.
Draco looked at the writing. He'd been going on for over a page about the seer, all the same general ideas but phrased a hundred different ways. All it spoke of, really, was the dark hair and brilliant eyes, the hands and build of the seer. Draco frowned, in reading it over he found himself describing the boy in the front row. He glanced at Blaise's writing, a drawing, as usual. Some vicious looking tribal woman with a scythe was crouching in a jungle, the grass around her feet grew as Draco watched, Blaise extended the lines up and gave them shadows.
He sensed the eyes and looked up, his dark brown eyes met his friends', "Like it?"
"Quite, who is she?"
"No one, someone, I don't know," Blaise shrugged and closed the notebook.
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered from behind them, "What's a four letter word for attraction?"
"Love?"
"Thanks," Ron wrote that down.
"Crossword?" Blaise leaned back and saw the page of the paper spread across his desk.
"Yeah," Ron nodded and moved on, biting his bottom lip.
"Hmm," Blaise nodded and turned back to Madam.
She was writing out arithmetic problems on the board. "Oi, Draco, did you get that new book in?"
"The Year Nine book?"
"That one," Blaise peered over his shoulder as Draco removed it from his bag. They were four years ahead of their grade but Madam did not notice, not really.
"We've entered Chapter four," Madam said, revealing a massive text, "It has to do with long division," she said the world like some grand theorem. She turned to the board and wrote up a problem. "Does anyone have any ideas for solving this?"
Ron put aside his paper and stared that numbers, "Bollocks," he swore. "Guys?" he nudged them.
"What?" Draco looked up.
"How?" he pointed.
Blaise looked at it and barely a second later spoke the answer, "Fifteen."
"What?" Madam turned back to the class, bewildered.
Blaise cleared his throat and focused on the sheet of paper before him.
Draco did not look up until someone tapped his desk with a ruler.
"Madam?"
"What are you doing?"
Draco felt suddenly put on the spot, she had never singled him, or his friends out.
"Arithmetic," he answered steadily.
"What kind?" she peered at him.
"Year Nine," he admitted, "Our fathers like us to work ahead."
She nodded curtly and returned to the board.
"Odd," Blaise raised his brows.
"Very," Draco agreed.
"What was that?" Pansy leaned across the aisle.
"No idea," Draco shook his head at her.
Pansy gave them a nod and turned to the board, observing their teacher with a sharp eye.
Draco nodded to himself, Pansy would handle this. Being the female of the group Pansy was viciously protective. She was no older than any of the others but she guarded her place in their ranks.
She knew they would never leave her, they would always be her comrades but that did not put her any more at ease about being the only girl. Draco loved her as if she were his sister; Blaise and Theo were the same. Vince and Greg were, admittedly, less fond of her but they accepted her and enjoyed her company nonetheless.
"I heard your mum is going to take over the PTA," Blaise whispered to Ron.
"She came home and told Da the whole story, all about the meeting and the other twittering women and blah, blah," Ron shrugged, "That vile woman needs a good kick in the arse anyways."
"Mrs. Dursley?" Draco asked.
The conversation stalled as Ron was called on to answer the question.
When he finished he nodded, hoarsely whispering, "Yes, I've only met her a couple times but she's a right witch."
Draco nodded, "She wants her whale-boy to be our friend. She's a social climber, or wants to be, and she's always inviting herself over to the house and making excuses to leave her fat spawn with us for a few hours. She wants us to be friends."
Blaise stifled a laugh. He was raised with Draco, born just days apart they learnt to walk, speak, read and write together. Blaise knew Draco and Draco chose his friends very carefully. He did not waste his time on anyone he did not trust or who did not care about him. This woman was wasting her time.
"Look," Ron nodded his chin towards the front of the room.
The dark haired Potter boy was standing at the board solving a particularly difficult equation. He finished, silent, and returned to his seat. Madam checked his work and smiled, "Good."
Blaise looked at the board, calculated and nodded, "He did that correctly. Year Seven work, that is."
Draco nodded, "Why did she ask him to do a Year Seven problem?"
"Looks like it integrated long division, multiplication and an exponent. She's trying to tie it into other things we've been working on," Blaise turned back to the sheet of numbers before him. "What is eight plus twelve?"
"Twenty," Draco smiled. Blaise could manage huge numbers and complex functions mentally but simple addition made him stall.
"Thanks love," Blaise wrote it out, calculated and moved on.
"Nerd," Draco whispered.
Blaise shot him a look, "Mama's boy."
Draco returned the look, "Are you trying to start a fight?"
"Maybe," Blaise's dark eyes lit with mischief.
"Tell me something," Draco leaned towards him, "Did the package arrive?"
Blaise matched his smirk, "Yes." His word was a hiss, sinking into the air around them and shattering into a thousand possibilities.
Draco glanced across the aisle at the black haired girl. She felt his gaze and looked up at him. She raised an eyebrow and read his expression.
"Tonight," he hissed and she nodded.She knew exactly what was going on.