COUNTERFEIT
I
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It was late. There was a delay in at Platform Nine and Three Quarters and the train left the station more than an hour later than usual. The students were hungry and tired, all resting or quietly chatting inside their own compartments as the Hogwarts Express sped past empty moors.
There was only one person out of her compartment. She shouldered a lumpy and seemingly heavy bag. Her two best friends had a spat the day before, in Diagon Alley – something about a broomstick.
You know how it is with boys and their toys.
Of course, with the two thickos not talking to each other, this poor, aforementioned girl has to run between them, relaying messages and whatnot, trying to patch up the rip in their relationship. It didn't help that the boys childishly decided that it would benefit them to each have their own compartment – on the opposite ends of the train. And that is exactly why our lovely, unnamed heroine is trotting the empty train aisle at this ungodly hour.
Now, frustrated and tired, Hermione fought against the motion of the train, moving in the opposite direction she's headed, tugging on the strap of her bag. The bag must not have been a good made, judging by the style, fabric and color. It's not wizard made – that's for sure. And that's probably why the bag strap couldn't handle both the weight of the objects our still nameless heroine placed inside and the tension she put on it by all that tugging.
The strap snapped and the bag fell with a loud thump, onto the carpeted floor, its contents (which are quills, parchment rolls and bottles of ink, by the way) rolled down the aisle.
The sound of its fall crept through the nearby compartment doors, and the occupants in all but one of these nearby compartments ignored the sound. The only person who developed the slightest interest in the source of the sound was none other than our young hero.
Coincidence?
I think not.
Draco Malfoy looked up from his copy of the Daily Prophet, saw that his fellow compartment occupants – the vain pretty boy and the two gorillas – were asleep, and peeked out into the train aisle through the crack of his ajar compartment door.
Outside, the girl groaned, and got down to her knees, and began picking up the fallen quills, parchment rolls and inkbottles one by one.
He did a double take, and recognition lit up his eyes.
Oh, God. He thought, staring at her in disbelief.
Yup.
He knew who she was.
He had spent the past month in two places – jogging for hours and hours at a time around the Malfoy Estate in Wiltshire and swimming in the expensive, crystal Pensieve belonging to the previous owner of his body, where Narcissica Malfoy had dumped many of her son's discarded memories in an desperate attempt to break the memory charm.
Amongst the shimmering strands of memories, which the late Draco Malfoy had left in his mother's possession, the new Draco had found a couple particularly interesting. One of them was where this bushy haired girl (now kneeling outside his compartment door) had slapped him in the face.
Draco indulged himself in this memory many times, pacing around this girl, watching her face as she struck him. He had been denied of the privilege of contact with the opposite sex for three years, and he found her passion and hatred for him…alluring, as there is no other word for it. He found it especially so after one certain memory of a certain Yule Ball, where this very girl had walked into the Great Hall shining like a beacon with beauty and grace.
For some strange and unknown reason, the last owner of the Pensieve had removed from his mind almost every single memory that had anything at all to do with this girl, and the new Draco went through them all – one after another. In the observance of these memories, Draco had gained a very intriguing piece of knowledge: the rabbit teethed, bookwormish girl had finally grown out of her exceptionally awkward stages of her adolescence and is now a woman, a beautiful, captivating and complex woman – the last Draco may not have noticed it, but this one did.
Now, Draco didn't really know her personally. He only came in contact with her through the discarded memories in the Pensieve – which were slightly biased. But there were many a nights where he awoke burning and blushing, having just dreamt of her in a humiliating and almost upsetting way for reasons even he didn't know. It's like one of those fantasies we have of rock gods or busty songstresses – people who are too appealing to be real, people who are too far beyond our reach, and all we can do is dream about them.
The only logical explanation I can give for Draco's feelings for the girl is that something about her probably caught his attention, and if I had to guess what that 'something about her' is I would say it's probably the polar difference between this bookworm and all the other young women the memories in the Pensieve held. If our hero didn't go through his three years of bitter isolation from the corruption of the modern world, and was shown these memories, he would have lusted after one of the more classy and sexy girls from the memories. But he did go through three years of bitter isolation from the corruption of the modern world, and it changed his view on a lot of things. He re-entered our society with new values and beliefs. He saw everything with new eyes.
To make matters more problematical, Draco had realized that the young man who's Pensieve he had been living in for the past month, had unconsciously uglified (if that is a word) the girl in his memories according to his (very, very prejudice) perception of her. In reality, she was a lot prettier than in the memories.
The previous owner of the Pensieve may have used it as a mean to sort through and compartmentalize his thoughts and feelings, but its new owner used it as a mean to be in the presence of a particular female individual.
Now a possibility was occurring to Draco, a very risky and challenging possibility. Secretly being a fan of impossible romances in the likes such as Romeo and Juliet, Draco enjoyed and welcomed the risks and challenges. To him, she, the girl he's been sweating about all this past month, was no longer outside of his reach. He'd love to just reach out and grab hold of her slender hand, to caress her mouth with his, and to perform numerous…ahem…sinful acts.
Draco felt his stomach tighten.
He quietly relocated the copy of the Daily Prophet, stood up and stepped outside. Carefully sliding the compartment door close behind him, Draco stood there staring at her – the once awkward looking, buck teethed and bushy haired girl who he had just realized he's falling for.
He bent down, picked up a roll of parchment that had rolled near his feet and slowly sauntered over to her. Lucky for him, he managed to remember her name, only because he thought it was very fitting for her: it was the name of the daughter of Helen, who was the most beautiful mortal in the world, according to Greek mythology.
Hermione.
Draco thought the name fit her even more so now, as he walked towards her, staring, measuring, observing, and (obscenely) undressing her in his mind…
Hermione (who at the moment was busy and unaware of a former enemy standing just a few feet away or of his sexual fantasies of her) was reaching for a stray quill when a pair of dragon skin boots sauntered into her sight. Before Hermione registered what she was seeing, a pale hand swooped down and picked up the quill she had been reaching for and handed it to her.
"Thank you," Hermione said instinctively, reaching for her quill. Then she looked up.
And froze.
Malfoy.
Hermione stood up so quick an inkbottle fell from the folds of her arms and smashed into bits on the ground. She ignored it. "What do you want, Malfoy?" she demanded, resentment and disgust etched in every syllable. To her absolute surprise and horror, he smiled. "I don't want anything," he replied. He lied, of course. He wanted to drop the parchment roll, forget the stupid quill, sweep her into his arms and kiss her till they go blue from the lack of oxygen.
"You, however," he continued, "would want this quill, and this roll of parchment that you dropped," he held the items out to her, no longer smiling but staring intently at her, his stomach doing back flips as he watched her.
Hermione took a step back. The ardour in his eyes frightened her. He watched her weigh the decisions – turn and run away or accept her quill and parchment roll? Finally she took a deep breath and stuck out a free arm. He swallowed, watching her bite her lip, and deposited her things onto her arm. He then reached inside his cloak and pulled out his wand. Before Hermione could react he had already uttered a spell.
"Reparo," he said, and the shattered inkbottle flew together, the ebony ink safely cased inside. He bent down, picked up the bottle, took a step forward and placed it amidst the other objects in her arm. Then, instinctively, his outreached hand, as if on its own accord, moved up a few inches and brushed back a lone tress of Hermione's curls, lightly grazing her jaw in progression.
Hermione froze.
What.
Was.
That?
"Sorry," Draco muttered, catching himself. Pulling back his hand as though electrified. His groin was burning. He wanted nothing more than to rip off her skirt, place himself between her thighs and ease the burn with one smooth stroke.
He smiled at her instead – obviously the more sensible thing to do – turned around and walked away, leaving her standing there, angry and confused. Hermione wasn't exactly sure what had just transpired here, but she knew that if it weren't for the parchment rolls, inkbottles and quills in her arms she would have slapped him.
So…saved from a slap by parchment rolls, inkbottles and quills, Draco returned to his compartment. As he slid open the door he felt a wave of delirium sweep over him. What he did – just now – was way too risky for comfort. Someone could have walked in on them…him, and then there would have been big trouble – for him at least.
"Where'd you go?" Blaise Zabini (formerly known as the vain pretty boy) was awake.
"Washroom," Draco replied. Blaise nodded, buying Draco's lie.
"Well, an owl came just now with a note…from Professor Snape," Blaise said, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment from his cloak pockets. "You've been summoned to his office. He wants to talk to you as soon as we arrive at Hogwarts."
Warning bells rang in Draco's head. He accepted the note with a raised eyebrow. Already he knew he wasn't going to that dreary dungeon anytime soon.
See, from what Draco came across in the Pensieve, he found out just about everything that had to do with his predecessor's relationship with this cunning, oily man. The past relationship resembled that of which a mentor and a favoured pupil may have. But as Draco went through the memories one by one, he had found the 'beloved mentor', 'respected professor, and 'honoured guru' to be a bit on the furtive side. As opposed to the previous Draco, this one disliked the man the moment he laid eyes on him.
Actually, looking back, the last two memories of Snape the now deceased Draco Malfoy the First had left behind were quite unpleasant. Draco Malfoy the Second had like to think that the first Draco's mission failed because of this Snape man's tampering (which is awfully close to truth, I might add. I might add something else here if I had the time, but I think I've wasted enough of yours already with these constant side notes, therefore, I shall proceed with the story…).
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Later that evening, Draco sat in the Great Hall with his Housemates, watching the Sorting Ceremony with very little interest. He had been the first to get off the train, but the last to arrive at Hogwarts grounds. He walked quickly behind his pair of pet gorillas named Crabbe and Goyle, and had quickly dropped down onto the marble floor to…ahem…tie his shoelaces upon recognizing Severus Snape's oily head (again, via the Pensieve).
At the beginning of the feast, Draco had pretended to not see the fifty different signals the Potions Master had given him, trying to get him to leave the Great Hall. Draco later decided it would be better if he avoided looking to the High Table where the man he was trying to evade sat. A good decision, obviously.
His gaze flickered toward the Gryffindor table. Quickly scanning the table he was surprised to see that the very object of his (very strange and unusual) affection was throwing him a burning glare of pure hatred. He met her gaze and smiled. She held his gaze and scowled. Throughout the whole Sorting Ceremony they sat there staring at each other, blinking only when someone stood up to clap or cheer.
Childish you may think, at least that's what I thought. Shameless, the way they flirt…by having a staring contest. Well if I have to elaborate, I must say, it was an exciting event…for them, at least. It would be quite boring to watch two people stare at each other, but just in case you wanted to know – Draco lost. Near the end of the Sorting, the Potions Master had Crabbe prod Draco to get his attention (thus breaking his eye contact with Hermione) and beckoned him to step outside. There was no more running away now. Draco excused himself from his companions, picked up his heavy cloak and walked out of the Great Hall. He didn't have to wait long. The Potions Master appeared seconds later. He looked quite angry.
"You wanted to see me, Professor?" Draco asked as nonchalant as possible, trying hard to sound like the predecessor of his body.
"Drop the act, Draco," Severus Snape hissed. He grabbed the boy's elbow and began steering him away from the Great Hall entrance. Draco scowled and wrenched himself free from the man's grip.
"We can talk here, Professor," Draco sniffed, slightly annoyed. Snape glowered at his young charge but nodded. "Did you want something, Professor?" The boy then asked.
"Draco," Snape began, then paused to gather his thoughts. "Draco…I want to know exactly what you are up to, what happened when Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange took you to him, and precisely how the bloody hell did you managed to still be alive."
Draco raised one fair eyebrow. "Uh…don't know, can't remember and no idea," he replied, and then smiled brightly at the man standing in front of him.
Snape fell silent. He stared at the boy. The boy stared back.
"What is he making to do this time?" Snape asked solemnly.
"Who?" Draco answered, sounding very cheery.
Snape didn't reply right away – he was too enraged to talk. For a second it seemed as if he was going to yell, then he half lifted his left hand like he was going to strike the boy, but eventually he settled for gritting his teeth.
"The Dark Lord," he finally spat, his fists clenched.
"Oh…him…" Draco laughed, feigning complete ignorance to the Potions Master's vehemence. "What did you want to know about him again?"
As you can possibly imagine, livid is an understatement for what Snape was feeling now. He was almost emitting waves of heated anger. He was shaking from head to toe.
He didn't answer. He just snarled through his gritted teeth. "Draco, I'm warning you…it's not worth putting your life on the line for something that doesn't concern you."
"What do you know?" Draco scowled, suddenly serious. "I would think I'd know more about how much something concerns me, wouldn't I?"
"Draco–"
"I'm tired," Draco abruptly announced, turning away. "I'm going to bed." Swiftly (and without any trace of fatigue), Draco walked away and up the giant swirling marble staircase. "Oh, and if you're really concerned about me, Professor, you might want to help me along by getting me the password to the Headmaster's office." The boy threw laughingly over his shoulder as he disappeared out of sight, leaving a very cross Potions Master glaring after him.
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A/N:
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