Chapter 2: And the Boy Who Never Thought He'd Lead Her There
"What if I wanted to break, Laugh it all off in your face?
What would you do?
What if I fell to the floor,
Couldn't take this anymore?
What would you do?" – The Kill
Sunlight filtered through the thick curtains that lined the windows in the expensive hotel he'd been staying in the past few days. He looked at his empty bed, only empty after the whore he'd met last night left. She'd been entertaining, sure, but he wasn't satisfied with that. He hadn't been sexually satisfied – not to mention any other kind of satisfied – for a long time. He wasn't happy, and it thoroughly angered him.
He rubbed his temples and got up gently, trying not to encourage any pain in his already pulsing head or encourage any thought about the beautiful witch he'd kissed the night before. Hermione had always been attractive, but somehow she'd grown over the summer in an entirely positive way and Draco wasn't sure he liked that. After all, he could never have her in any way; she was a mudblood. Draco made a revolting sound in the back of his throat; she'd just felt so good, so right against him.
He went to the bathroom and looked at his disheveled, quite frankly awful appearance, and sighed. He really needed to stop partying. He probably hadn't spent one night alone the entire week. Walking back to the bed, he found a note on the table next to it.
"That's odd," he murmured to himself. The letter was addressed to Pansy Parkinson, not Draco Malfoy. He wondered briefly what kind of scheme she was trying; if she was sending her mail to his suite to force an interaction between the two of him. He grimaced, imaging it.
"Hello, Pansy, I received this letter and I just wanted to make sure you got it; it looked important."
"Thank you so much, Draco, but you can keep it at your place for now. I have something I need to show you."
"What's that?"
"Come see, I got new pillows the other day; your father said you'd like them because they're made with goose feathers, your favorite. Oh, and I talked to your mother the other day too, and she said that the plans are all set for the wedding the minute we're done with school. I can't wait, darling!"
His stomach churned at the thought; him and Pansy, married. What could be more revolting? Sure she was probably the prettiest witch he'd ever been with, and her fortune would go well with his, but she was so awful. She was frivolous and petty, and very, very protective. He couldn't imagine living with her the rest of his life and he thought that he would probably go mad, but that never really mattered to his parents. He hated that.
He sighed and threw the letter back down on the table and decided that he would just ignore Pansy for as long as he could. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
Pulling his pants over his waist, he pulled his shirt on over his head, and slipped into his shoes, leaving the room. He would come back later, when he was sure the loneliness of his life would no longer depress him.
As he walked down the steps of the slightly too glorious, dark lobby, Draco was stopped by something. A feeling in the air that he wasn't sure he liked, he reached into his pocket for his wand, readying himself for whatever had caused this uneasiness.
"Hello, Draco," someone said angrily from behind him. He turned and rolled his eyes, recognizing the voice. He put his wand back, wishing he would have ignored the feeling and just left. So much for ignoring her, he couldn't believe she was so persistent.
"What the hell do you want, Pansy?" He leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed over his chest, angry that she would show up now – of all the times to make a scene.
"Who is she?" She asked spitefully, venom in her eyes.
"Who is who?" He asked dumbly, although he knew what the dark witch was getting at.
"The whore you were thrusting into a wall last night!" He pondered that for a moment, not knowing if he should respond honestly or play around with her a little bit. Her feathers were so easily ruffle-able.
"Is the pot calling the kettle black?" He smiled tauntingly; rather annoyed that Pansy would show up here. "Last I heard you and Blaise weren't exactly un-familiar with each other."
"Just tell me who she is, Malfoy," she spat.
"You wouldn't know her," he said, "But you're right, you know?"
"About?"
"Me slamming her into the wall all night." He smirked, delighted by how her pain screwed up her face in a way that ruined its beauty. She shouldn't be beautiful like she was, with long black hair and deep blue eyes, but she was and it usually annoyed the hell out of Draco.
"She'll bore you soon enough, and then…" she smiled wickedly and Draco frowned, "You'll be begging me back into your bed."
Draco scowled and turned to leave.
"You know it's true, Draco," she continued relentlessly, "You know you'll always come back to me. It's how it's supposed to be. You and me… it's how your parents want it…"
Her voice drifted off as he walked out of the building, hailing the nearest cab, hating that he couldn't just apparate to Malfoy Manor. Hating that she was right, that he would have to come back to her in the end… it was protocol for two of the greatest pureblood families.
"Where have you been, Draco?" Narcissa said coolly from the doorway, her long, white hair tied into a braid that draped over one shoulder and drifted into the black lengths of her robes. She looked – not at all uncharacteristically – evil. Draco shivered from the iciness in her stare. Welcome home… he thought bitterly.
"Come here, Son," Lucius commanded from the door of his study. Draco walked casually – despite the fact that his heart was beating nervously – into the familiar room.
"Hello, Father," he sat down smoothly into one of the leather chairs opposite his father's desk. The room hadn't changed much. It was still dark, black and green covering everything with the occasional silver mixed in. It was not a happy place; many had been threatened here, tortured until they complied or killed if they didn't. Draco shuddered.
"How are things?" His father asked indifferently. Draco rolled his eyes, like his father gave a damn. As long as Draco stayed alive and under the rule of Voldemort, nothing else mattered.
"Fine."
"So I heard from our Lord today," he started, staring deeply into Draco's eyes. Pale blue against the most awful silver.
"Did you?" Draco asked, feigning interest because he knew his father would grow suspicious if he didn't care about the Dark Lord's wishes. He didn't.
"Yes, he needs you to do something when you return to school…" he looked at his son, eyeing him in case there was any flicker of doubt in his eyes. Draco snorted.
"Just tell me what I have to do."
"Well," he turned in his chair, procuring something from inside his desk. "You'll need this."
"An invisibility cloak?" Draco asked, intrigued now and slightly enthusiastic; maybe this meant that he could sneak around Hogwarts in the middle of the night without getting caught, give old Dumbledore a hard time.
"Yes, you'll need it to find something … a horcrux." Draco straightened at the word, a slight chill running through his spine. He looked at his father warily; he didn't want to have anything to do with Voldemort's horcruxes. The idea of separating your soul horrified him, and to do it so many times…
"What?" He asked, suddenly very resentful of his family's standing with the darkest wizard of all time. He hated that his bloodline meant that he too had to do whatever the Dark Lord bids.
"You must, Draco. We think that Potter, Weasel, and Granger have already started and you must beat them."
Draco looked into his father's cold, hard eyes. There was no compassion there, no kindness or happiness, no hope for anything remotely good.
"Draco!" Blaise said, sitting up straight in his chair in surprise. The girl on his lap – one Draco had never seen before – blushed in embarrassment and quickly moved onto the available couch. Draco smiled, shouldn't she know better? Blaise was a true friend and generally a good guy, but he was awful to women of all beauty and status. He treated women like they were nothing, because that's how he felt. Draco never truly understood that, but nevertheless he cared more about his friend than the fate of his friend's newest conquest.
"I didn't know you were coming," he said, standing up and offering Draco a drink. He took it gladly, happy for the relief he often found around the carefree, fun wizard.
"Sorry, I couldn't go back to my flat just yet – or my suite. And of course you know I could never go back to the Manor." Draco shook his head, maybe he was too rich. It had never occurred to him before, but he did seem to have a lot. For example, three different homes. Blaise shook his head and smiled empathetically, his family wasn't exactly paradise either. He was in the same boat Draco was in. He would be married at the end of his schooling and go on to join the Death Eaters, just like Draco would. It was similar for almost all of the dark, pureblood, rich families of the wizarding world.
"It's fine," he commented, leaning over and whispering to his female friend so that Draco couldn't hear. A moment later she left. "Stay as long as you need. Well, until school I suppose." Draco groaned; school.
"When is that anyway?" He asked, taking a drink. Blaise shrugged.
"Two days I believe." He smiled apathetically, "That means my old man will be back to give me another talk. Blaise you're coming into the wealth and prosperity of the Zabini name soon, you must straighten up. No girls, no partying, and no drinking!" Blaise did the best impression of his overbearing father that Draco had ever heard. He started laughing and Blaise did too.
"Fuck," Draco cursed blankly, staring at the school that he'd so hated to attend. He – as most Malfoys – was opposed to any type of boring work, also known as school. Sure the atmosphere was fine and the people weren't too bad, at least the ones in his house, but the boringness almost killed him.
"I know," Blaise agreed dryly. He too, was strongly against dullness and hated school because of it. The last two days they'd spent sleeping and drinking. Partying until they had to go back to school and their "duty," for Blaise, too, was under the control of the Dark Lord.
"Language, boys," Snape said dully from behind the large group of Slytherins entering the massive school. Draco smirked; like Snape would ever actually care about something like that.
"To the dining hall boys," he commented dryly, picking a piece of lint off of his drab, black robes.
When they entered the large eating area and sat down at their tables, Draco noticed a murmur of excitement different from the normal first-day frenzy. He leaned over to Blaise, who was running his hand up a girl's skirt.
"Really, Zabini?" He chuckled, rolling his eyes, "Already?" His friend just shrugged.
"So what's going on?" Draco continued, gesturing to the gasping crowd gathered around the Gryffindor table. Blaise looked up for a moment, pursed his lips, and returned to lavishing the girl beside him. Draco frowned; Blaise had been in a particularly bad mood for the past day and he could only guess that his friend's father hadn't been kind in his visit.
"Mr. Weasley!" Someone shouted from across the room. Draco looked up from his soup to find McGonagall looking horrified towards the red head. Draco craned his neck to try and see.
"I didn't mean to, honest Professor!" Weasel pleaded, face red. Draco vaguely saw someone sneak out behind the commotion, head in her hands, tangled curls falling down her shoulders.
"You mean slapping Miss Granger across the face was an accident?" She was visibly fuming and Draco had to admit it was funny – despite the fact that Weasel had hit a female. He tried to ignore the slight urge he had to give him a taste of his own medicine – but why would he want to do that? It wasn't as if he cared about the bookworm.