Chapter III: First Flight
Dobby the House Elf focused his large, orb-like eyes on his youngest mistress as the day's early light rose from her sleeping countenance.
So innocent, he thought. Like a completely different person.
It was true, the little fair-haired child appeared so soft and carefree as she lay unconscious beneath the covers of her full-size canopy bed. Dobby wished that she could remain that way, and he deeply dreaded what he then had to do.
"Young Master," Dobby began softly.
"Young Master," he pressed with a bit more force.
The child did not stir.
"Young Master," louder. "Young Master."
Draco stirred, but only to whimper and roll to her other side.
Dobby sighed.
"YOUNG MASTER!"
The elf's squeaky voice peaked like the whistle of a tea kettle as the child's eyelids begrudgingly parted, and her chubby face swole with vengeance. Dobby immediately shielded his head—a reflex born from daily habit. He slightly winced as the object met his twig-like forearms with a smack.
He exhaled, slowly lowering his arms. Thankfully, it had only been a pillow that time. On more severe occasions, Dobby had been assailed by bedside lamps, glasses of water, toy broomsticks, and books—incidents that had only added lumps to his already misshapen head.
"Young Master," Dobby piped, picking up the pillow that had been tossed his way and giving it a quick fluffing, "your mother has requested that you have your bath, are dressed, and meet your family in the parlour."
"What about breakfast?" the child voiced through a yawn as she stretched her arms towards the ceiling.
"Your parents have requested that you come down for breakfast this morning. They have a special surprise for you."
Dobby helped the sleepy-eyed girl down from her mattress. As the child headed through the door of the bathroom, Dobby sent the pillow in his hands through the air and back to its rightful place on the bed. He then clicked his fingers to pull up the flat sheet, then the afghan, and finally the quilt, before clicking once more to grant the pillows one final fluff.
Draco discarded her nightclothes into the laundry chute. Once undressed, she pittered up the few steps to the garden tub. Before descending into the water, she placed a single cautious toe upon its surface. Satisfied with the warmth of the bath, she stepped carefully down and took a seat on the edge of the step within, at which point, only her head could be seen over the clear, pearl-shaped bubbles.
The tub was more than sufficient for her tiny body. In fact, it was like a small swimming pool. Many times, she had dog-paddled across, though Dobby made sure to rush her out as quickly as he could, lest Narcissa become upset by the sight of her daughter's pruney fingers.
Dobby gently massaged shampoo into the child's scalp.
"Ow! Watch what you are doing! You've gotten soap in my eyes," Draco complained as the house elf poured a pitcher full of water over her head.
Dobby then gave the child a good polishing over with a wash cloth.
"Don't scrub so hard!" Draco protested as Dobby scrubbed her back with a brush.
Once out of the tub, the house elf wrapped Draco with a fresh, clean towel and gently dried her hair with another.
Once she was dried, Dobby allowed Draco to dress in the clothing that her mother had lain out for her: a brand-new set of velvety emerald green robes with S-shaped clasps that interlocked just beneath the chin—a rather serious set of clothing for a little one with such a pudgy face. Her hair would have to be fixed if there was to be any hope for completing the look.
Draco's hair was soft but thick for such a young child, and, when it got wet or the air was humid, her natural curls had a habit of frizzing their selves into an untamable mess. To some, Draco's natural curls may have been a cause for joy. To her parents, however, they were a major flaw that warranted correction. Therefore, every morning, her buttery-blonde locks would don gobs and gobs of hair gel prior to being teased back in a slick, streamlined fashion. Not a single strand was to be out of place—lest Dobby receive an iron to the knuckles or a spoon to the nose.
Dobby eyed Draco's reflection in the vanity mirror as he gave her one final comb at the back of the head. He was satisfied with his work, as, had he not known the child, he would have thought her a young lad. However, Dobby could not help but feel a slight pang of guilt as the thought crossed the space between his enormous, pointed ears.
It was true that Draco was not always kind to Dobby. She assailed him with inanimate objects, complained incessantly, threw tantrums when not given her way, and occasionally broke valuable items just to lay the blame on him. Yes, she could be quite an impossible child. Still, Dobby somehow found it difficult to resent her. In fact, he sometimes wondered if she could be considered just as much a prisoner as him.
"Come, Master Draco," Dobby beckoned. "Your family awaits."
Though it had happened many times, Dobby still found himself perplexed by the sensation of the tiny hand gently fumbling for his own. It traveled up his arm and flooded into his chest.
Despite his miserable life, Dobby could not help but smile as he clasped his fingers around those of his young mistress and led her out of the room.
Draco gazed in awe as brightly-robed athletes whizzed by on their brooms and jovial music greeted them to the field. The stadium was teeming with all manner of magical folk. One small child sporting a Chudley Cannons jersey greedily feasted on a great fluff of pastel candy floss as her mother led her on. Nearby, a group of half-naked young men coated in bright orange slurped butterbeer through straws trailing from bottles fastened to the sides of their heads. Also nearby, a woman leaned so far forward that she would have fallen out of the stands, had her friend not pulled her back from her demise.
"RAIBERT, I LOVE YOU!" she wailed through cupped hands as the seeker for the Montrose Magpies flew past.
Though witches and wizards from all walks of life were gathered together for this one event, most of them were not seated in a cushioned chair in a partitioned box with a table full of sweets and refreshments waiting behind them. This is one of the ways in which Draco learned that being a Malfoy had its perks.
Abraxas Malfoy grinned proudly as he watched his grandchild's face light up and took the seat next to her, a freshly-poured glass of red wine in hand. From where they were sitting, they were right on level with the players. It was not too difficult for Draco to imagine herself as a part of the action.
Abraxas took a sip of his wine and rested the glass on his knee.
"You see the ones in orange, Draco?" he asked.
"Yes, Grandfather," the child replied, turning from the object of her amusement.
"Those are the losers. Never cheer for them. Only those in denial cheer for that sort. They are not going to win this match."
"Yes, Sir." Draco nodded, though she could not help but ask, "But how do you know?"
Abraxas chuckled, patting her gently on the head, "I know everything, Draco. I've been around for a long time."
"Ladies and gentlemen," a heavy male voice boomed over the speaker. "today's match between the Montrose Magpies and the Chudley Cannons is about to begin."
The crowd exclaimed an anticipatory cheer.
"However, before we begin, I have a quick announcement: Today is Montrose Magpie Chaser, Octavius McFadden's twenty-second birthday. Good luck on your birthday, Octavius!"
"No one gives a flying crap about his birthday! Let's get on with the bloody game!" shouted one of the young men who was painted orange.
"Yeah!" chimed in another. "We didn't come to hear about ol' Faddy's stupid birthday. We came here to see the Cannons whoop some Magpie arse!"
"Athletes, into position," came the announcement as the players swooped into their allotted places.
They hovered, lunging forward on their brooms, faces marked with fierce expressions. They were still, but only because they were bottling that energy that would soon burst forth. That same energy that would soon lead one team to their glory.
The referee, also hovering on broomstick, shot some words at the players, but Draco could not hear what he was saying. The next fully discernible sound she heard was the squeal of the whistle. Immediately, just as the sound reached her ears, she became the spectator of another marvel as the men and women on broomstick blazed gracefully and swiftly through the sky.
It was a feast for the eyes, and match-after-match, Draco hungered for it more and more, and it was not long before she decided that it was not enough to watch quidditch. She wanted more. She wanted the rush of adrenaline running through her veins. She wanted the excitement. She longed to understand the inner-workings of each team—how each member seemed to play their own part in a larger system, much like a cog in a well-oiled machine. Perhaps, most of all, she wanted to know what it felt like to win.
Late one night, after a long day at the stadium, Draco lie staring up at the ceiling, reflections of stars cascading between her bedroom walls. She could not sleep. As she listened to the roar of the crowd still playing in her head, she could only imagine what it felt like to be completely weightless, to have the wind whipping through her hair and her eyes filled with the sun. To be one with the chase. The action. The victory! And she was not going to find out for herself by staying on the ground.
So, she padded across the floor, from her bed, and to her wardrobe, to scavenge for a pair of shoes. Though she had footwear a-plenty, she only had one pair of tennis shoes. They were a tad too small and hardly worn, but they would suit her purpose. She slipped them on without a pair of socks and took her time in wandering down the hall, down the stairs, her toes pinched all the while. She didn't care. And her discovery of her father's broom in the entrance hall closet before escaping through the front door verified her reason for not caring.
Broom in hand, she traced a path across the front courtyard, around the back, and to the open field that separated the family cemetery from the vineyards. From atop of a hill, she looked down on all the land that would someday belong to her: the mansion; the courtyards, gardens, gazebos, and fountains; the orchards and ponds; the vineyards and winery. All hers. As far as the eye could see.
For want of a different perspective, she mounted her father's broom. From there, she didn't know exactly what to do. All she could do was try something and try something different when that something didn't work.
First, she closed her eyes to imagine herself flying. She kicked off the ground and . . . immediately came back down. She stood up, befuddled, rubbing herself on the behind. She tried again, this time starting with a run. Again, she crashed to the ground, but with scrapes and bruises from a skid and tumble down the hill.
She gazed up at the hill behind her, amazed by just how far she had fallen. She stood, staring intently at the broomstick in her hand. What was she doing wrong? Why couldn't she fly? It couldn't be because she had no magic. She tried to think of what she was missing, but her parents rarely flew and she had a difficult time remembering the actions they took when they did. She never stopped to think of it before. They made everything seem so easy.
"Stupid broom!" she griped, frustrated, flinging the item to the ground.
She turned, ready to walk away from it. From her dream. That's when she heard something. Slowly, she turned back to find the broom floating in the air, not much more than a foot off the ground.
She cocked her head at the unlikely spectacle as she approached. It was waiting for her. No one else. And so, she got on.
Immediately, the broom took off high into the air. At first, she found it difficult to maintain her grip as it moved this way and that. Cutting closely to the tree tops. Up over the roof of the mansion. She caught her reflection in the water of the fountain. There was no doubt about it. She was finally flying.
It was a fearsome feat, but, suddenly, she felt a little braver. She grinned, sitting up a little straighter. She leaned to the right to make a right turn. She leaned to the left to make a left turn. She leaned forward to speed up. She leaned backwards to slow down. She was getting the hang of it when, once again, flight fell out of her control. The broom was descending, and she could not stop it. She panicked and somehow ended up hanging off the broomstick by one hand. She screamed, unable to hold on any longer. Like a shot, she fell out of the sky, certain this was the end, and then . . .
"Father!" she cried, grateful to have landed in his arms.
"Draco, your mother and I were so worried when we went to your room to check on you and you weren't there."
Lucius held her tightly, his fear from having seen his daughter slipping from the broom he had been trying desperately to control finally subsiding.
"Did you see me fly, Father?" Draco asked as Lucius tucked her back into bed.
"Yes, I did," Lucius assured her. "But you shouldn't fly without your mother or me there with you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good. We'll talk more about this in the morning."
Lucius entered his bedroom to find Narcissa standing at the doorway in her ivory night set, which made her fair features glow even more.
"Did you find her?" she asked, worry still in her eyes.
"I certainly did," Lucius replied, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "And you should have seen it. Our little dragon was flying."