Book of Shadows
Chapter 17 – A sad little dragon
…
A day after Quidditch was always a trick. Win or lose, passions were high, and never was that more true than when the game came with unexpected surprises.
The student body was up in arms, but not because their Quidditch game had been invaded by monsters, all agreed it had been the most exciting game they'd ever seen, especially the bit with the dragon.
No, what had the mob polishing their pitchforks was Dumbledore deciding, until further notice, all Quidditch was to be postponed. The outrage from that announcement had been quite—outrageous.
Remus Lupin's dog had been especially vocal in his objection. It was only the threat of a good neutering that finally shut him up.
"I'm sure I heard you call him Sirius."
"What! No, no, you must have misheard me."
And he needed to stay shut up thanks to Harry's little slip and the dogged perseverance of intrepid reporter Luna Lovegood.
"I don't think I did mishear you."
"Can't explain it—temporary insanity? Uh, Luna, please don't write that down."
He had enough trouble without people thinking he was mad… well, probably no helping that, but he didn't need to give them any confirmation they were right.
But as bad as Harry was getting it, there were people in the castle, remarkably, getting it worse.
"This is insane Dumbledore."
"No, I assure you we're all quite cognizant Cornelius."
The minister was back and not at all pleased. He would have been even less pleased if he'd actually been there for the mass invasions. Dolores account of the events had been very spotty, and her shaking hand was barely legible.
But, Dumbledore, unlike Harry, was well skilled at dealing with such situations and had been prepared for the minister's arrival well before it happened. His position was worse than Harry's by most definitions, he was simply better equipped to handle it.
Someone who wasn't equipped to handle it was Draco Malfoy.
Oh, he'd been tutored in politics since a young age. The duel of words to replace the sword's lunge, parry, riposte. One might argue the lessons hadn't really sunk in as demonstrated by his constant use of derogatory terms that simply made him look vulgar and uneducated, but the point is he had been taught.
All this teaching was of little use when dealing with his father, and more importantly, the dark lord.
The only nice thing he'd heard from his father of late was that his monumental bungling, which was exactly how his father had described it; monumental bungling had provided another layer of distraction to keep the dark lords resurrection a secret.
Leave it to Lucius Malfoy to wrap a compliment in an insult.
Everything else had been far less subtle which shocked Draco in ways he'd never thought possible. In all his life he could never remember a time his father had been so terse with him. Other people sure, even his mother, but never Draco.
It was having the dark lord in the house that was doing it, he was sure. It couldn't be easy, that close to magnificence every single day. It could leave even someone as incredible as Lucius Malfoy feeling drab by comparison. And then to have his son monumentally bungle.
In a rare moment of honesty Draco had been able to acknowledge, though only to himself, he had messed up. He'd messed up big, and at the worst possible time. He needed to fix things, do something that would make up for his, once again, monumental bungle.
This was proving more difficult said than done. At first, he'd tried learning all he could about the strange apparitions he'd summoned. Seeing everyone else had the same idea, he'd quickly shifted gears to writing down everything everyone else was learning and sending these 'reports' to his father, and by extension, the dark lord.
He'd been quite pleased with himself for a time. That had lasted till shortly after the first invasion, when he found out Luna Lovegood, his distant, though not distant enough in his opinion, cousin, had not only reported everything he'd reported and then some, but she'd also gotten it published in a paper.
Normally getting something published in 'The Quibbler' would not be something to arouse his green-eyed monster (who he secretly called Harry) but seeing most of the school reading the damn rag had changed his perspective on the matter.
The letter from home detailing his failings to report all that Luna had didn't help his frame of mind either.
His only saving grace now seemed to be he was their only reliable source on exactly how it had all started. Even Uncle Severus didn't know it was Draco who'd brought about the arrival of the shadows.
This was probably best for his continued good health as the whole situation had made his godfather very irritable. Not like he usually was, taking points from anyone not in Slytherin for any little thing up to and including breathing too loud. That sort of thing was fine, at least in Draco's opinion.
The problem came when he started aiming the bitch stick at his own house, which he had in some moderation. The first time had shocked all of them to such a degree it had been the direct cause for the second.
He'd wanted to ask what was bothering the potions master but the look he'd gotten just for thinking it had changed his mind then and there, and nearly required a change of drawers.
He'd had a genuine hope the first Quidditch game of the year would help him turn things around. Stupid Potter wasn't playing, and even if the Weasley bint had Potters broom, she was still a Weasley. Having her useless brother playing keeper had merely been icing on that particular cake.
Then it happened, it was humiliating. Not only had she caught the snitch, but she hadn't even been on the Firebolt when she did it. Now everyone was mad at him, a thing he'd totally understand if it were anyone else.
That had been what he'd come to breakfast to. Bookended by Crabbe and Goyle merely provided no way to escape the scathing looks which, at the time, he'd considered the worst thing ever.
Then the family owl showed up. The regal and vicious eagle owl landed primly in front of him, passed off his letter, then waited.
This was not typical behavior. It only ever waited if it was expecting a reply.
Draco tore through the missive then nearly passed out. The dark lord wanted to meet him.
Of course, it was worded very politely, but a dark lord could afford to be polite when his reputation was sufficient to keep everyone else equally polite for fear of what may happen if they weren't.
He'd skipped class, never fearing punishment for doing so. He'd dawdled over his reply, too fragile to hold the quill without shaking and not sure how he was going to get out of the castle to attend his 'friendly little chat'.
They must have known he'd react like this, because it was later that evening Professor Snape arrived, informing him he would be his escort.
"But, how did you…"
"Did you really think 'he' would not have foreseen the issue of your leaving and taken steps to smooth the process."
It was as harsh a chastisement as he'd ever had, doubly painful as he was already feeling as low as a Weasley.
He followed his head of house, skulking through the less used halls to avoid anyone who might ask questions. Down the path, past the gates, and just past the border of the wards.
"Ready?"
NO! He wanted to scream, but it wasn't really a question, as the hand on his shoulder informed him. A brief flux of air and the two were gone.