Before Fifth-Year

31 August 1995

Dear Mum and Dad,

You won't believe it, Professor Dumbledore really did make me Gryffindor Prefect! We just got our letters (unusually late, as you will have noticed, I'm assuming because of problems filling a teaching position), and there was the badge! It's so pretty! Golden and scarlet red, with a lion! I've enclosed a picture so you can see for yourselves! I'm incredibly excited, not only to be carrying on the family tradition — I'm particularly looking forward to helping the first years and all those who need guidance. I've got so many ideas on how to help Muggle-born students with their arrival at Hogwarts specifically, and I can't wait to find out who's Head Boy and Girl this year to discuss my proposals with them!

There's one thing I feel a bit funny about though, and that's my male counterpart. Ron's been made Gryffindor prefect. I'm sure you both understand, you know how much I love Ron, and I'm incredibly happy for him, he's been wanting something like this for ages, it's just… Maybe it was presumptuous of me to think it would be Harry, but if I was totally honest, he is a little more successful than Ron, academically speaking, and it's also usually Harry who, between the both of them, tends to take on responsibility for others. Whereas Ron … well, you know.

On the other hand, Harry is pretty overwhelmed right now. I've told you about the accident he was in — thanks for the advice, Mum, acknowledging his anger has helped so much — yet, he still doesn't admit that he's grieving, even though everyone sees how much he's hurting. He keeps pretending everything is all right, but of course, it's not! He doesn't even talk with his godfather about it. It's so hard seeing him suffering like this. So I had hoped that becoming prefect… but then again, I'm sure Professor Dumbledore has his reasons. If you have more advice for me, how to deal with Harry's grief and such, Hedwig will wait for your response.

Other than that, we're doing very well around here. We're still pretty busy between tidying up the house and managing Harry's outbursts. Ron's not much better. He's been acting rather odd lately. He keeps badgering me about Bulgaria, how I liked it and so forth, and every time I tell him about anything I enjoyed, he reacts so irrationally. He won't admit that he doesn't really want to know about the country. All he wants to hear about is Krum. This obsession of his is truly getting ridiculous. On top of it, he then becomes cross with me— as if that would motivate me to be any more frank. Ginny has been really nice about it though — I'm beyond glad that I'm sharing a room with her again. She says that I had the right to enjoy myself and not feel guilty, and that Ron's just jealous. But honestly, I can't really see what he's so jealous about. I don't want the distraction of a boyfriend living far away, all I want to do is focus on school! It must be so lovely, having completed your education, being able to focus on the future and what else there is. I'm beyond lucky that Viktor has shown a level of maturity Ron and Harry can only aspire to at the moment. It's driving me bonkers. Teenage boys are such work, honestly. You really must count yourselves lucky that you've got me (don't even start, Dad!).

I've enclosed a few more pictures I took these past few days. There are a couple more from Ginny's birthday from a fortnight ago (we all were a bit tense that evening so don't be surprised that there aren't too many smiles to go around), and some from around the house. It's still pretty dingy, but you can still see the progress we made, I think! It's a truly amazing house with such a rich family history — did I tell you that the Blacks, Harry's godfather's family, can trace its roots back to the 8th century? They have a family tapestry from the 15th century in one of the sitting rooms (yes, Mum, one of them, but don't worry, Sirius is pretty much the opposite of a snob). I'm hoping that I'll get the opportunity to take a closer look at it before we leave for Hogwarts tomorrow. Haven't got around to that yet — so much to do!

You two are still enjoying Hong Kong, I hope (Mr Whitaker didn't make the conference hell for you, Mum, did he)? I'm sure Dad dragged you around the city to explore between sessions, so please send Hedwig back with lots of photographs! I'll be at Hogwarts by then — I'm already itching to dive into schoolwork and finally get ahead of my O.W.L. revisions.

I miss you two so, so much.

Lots of love

Hermione xx

Draco stormed out of the house, ignoring Theo who was trying to catch up with him.

'Draco, wait—'

He breathed heavily. The need to get away was burning in his chest. He Accio 'ed his broom and pushed off the ground, leaving his friend behind.

The breeze whipped through his hair as he shot into the clear blue summer sky, farther and farther away from the Manor. He zipped over the perfectly manicured lawns with the large fountain amidst the rose bushes, following the stretch of the Great Canal that guided his way deeper into the grounds. He flattened himself on his broomstick, accelerating, until the many lakes and waterways, the groves, bushes and skies blurred together in a single indistinguishable blue-green.

Draco was so sick of it. Sick of not being taken seriously. Sick of being sent out of the room. Sick of being "a boy."

The wind howled around his head, pushing back the fringe that had grown a little too long over the summer. He circled higher and higher, the landscape and monuments below fading into each other. When the ground beneath him was a palette of pale colours, he halted, hovering in mid-air.

He closed his eyes and let the summer sun sink into his skin. He breathed deeply, and the cold air tingled in his lungs.

Draco loved the clarity at this height. The air tasted fresh and crisp on his tongue, and the slight chill made him hyper-aware of everything. His ears were aching a little from the headwind, but he hardly noticed it with the magnificent view.

Today's sight was so perfect, he could see for miles. The Upper Lake below him expanded in a stretch of azure, twisting through the grounds like a great Horned Serpent. Though he had seen it a hundred times, every now and again Draco was hit by the beauty. The many forms the water could take fascinated him. His eyes traced it back to its origins — up the Cascade and into the Heptagon Pool, through the Great Canal back to the Fountain of Five Elements which was right in front of the Manor surrounded by his mother's rose bushes.

Draco frowned and turned around. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he squinted, straining his eyes. The conditions were so good that he could see as far as Stonehenge. He even thought he'd spotted the faint specks of purple and red that were the flowers on Robert's grave.

It was his land, as far as he could see. Malfoy land.

Pride flooded his chest, pushing against the tightness in his ribs, and he wanted to laugh out loud.

Unfortunately, if he could see as far as Muggle land, he, too, was visible.

Slowly, incrementally, he leaned forward, relishing the sensation of momentary stasis that made him cognisant of the life thrumming through his body. His hands gripped the handle confidently; he could feel his muscles working, straining to do his bidding at any moment. His mind was alert; it was all that kept him between floating in mid-air and hurtling towards the ground.

Draco breathed deeply— and tipped forward. In the blink of an eye, he was going so fast that the wind was howling in his ears, his hair whipping around his head. He squinted his eyes shut as the slipstream lashed against his face, making his face prickle as if stung by a hundred needles.

But he didn't care. His blood was coursing hot through his veins, filling him with the indescribable feeling of utter control. It was as though he himself was flying.

Eager to go even faster, Draco leaned forward as far as he dared. The handle, smooth and cool in his grip, was ready to react to the slightest command; his face, already numb, ached with his urge to laugh in excitement. The winds howled, mirroring the blood whooshing in his ears, the high of speed and excitement making him burst with energy, draining away the anger and frustration festering in his mind.

It was like falling— and yet, nothing like falling at all.

Draco wanted to whoop as he hurtled towards the ground, pushing his body flat against the broomstick, testing the limits of his racing broom. His arms were twisting around the handle, his legs too, were merging with it, and he hardly knew where he ended and his Nimbus began. The blood was pounding in his veins, his heart beating so violently, that he felt elated, alive.

The blurred green gradually separated into dots of green, trees and bushes. What was a blob of light blue just an instant before, expanded, dissipated into the azure, sapphire, ultramarine of the lakes with tiny specks of white dancing over them. He zoomed closer and the amorphous specs distinguished themselves into waves rippling in the breeze and glittering in the sunlight.

Like a human bludger, Draco shot towards the ground, swooping over the Isle of Lethe and the Lower Lake surrounding it, shooting towards the natural part of the gardens, far away from the Manor, with lawns stretching in-between shrubbery and rock formations.

At the last moment, when he could almost make out individual blades of grass, he hoicked the handle with all his might, forcing his broom out of the dive so suddenly that it trembled violently in mid-air whilst still hurtling forwards that he almost fell off.

Draco gripped the handle firmly, stabilising the broom. He exhaled heavily, shakily. His Nimbus raced forward, slightly upwards, calm and steady, and he directed his attention towards his goal. Slowly circling the tall elm trees, he approached a handsome white round temple built in the classical style atop one of the knolls that had been part of a more recent remodelling, hidden away in a part of the gardens where nobody cared to go — except for him.

Draco jumped off his broom. Leaning his Nimbus against the wall of the Temple of Prometheus , he turned his back on the blue fire that was eternally flickering inside and sat down at the edge of the base. From here, he had a fantastic view over the latter part of the grounds. All kinds of trees painted the surrounding nature in a variety of summer colours. With the rock formations successfully shielding the place, its sloping hills dotted with groves and shrubbery were the perfect frame, while the Lower Lake was its idyllic background.

Draco exhaled and there was a lightness in his chest.

His parents could apparate here of course, but they hardly ever did. His mother far preferred the rose bushes close to the Manor, and his father would rather spend hours in the stables than walk around the grounds — though these days, he hardly did that either. Draco was used to having this part all to himself. He would spend hours reading or riding his broom, swimming in the Lower Lake , or contemplating the part of the gardens which seemed most untamed. It was an illusion, of course. At least two house-elves were tasked with keeping dead leaves or twigs from blemishing the impeccable lawns, making sure that the bushes kept their forms and didn't outgrow each other.

Draco leaned against one of the columns and closed his eyes. The flight induced elation was seeping away and made way for his former anger. He breathed in and out, and suddenly, it flooded back with full force, spreading through his veins and festering in his heart like a Venomous Tentacula.

'What do you think you're doing, Draco?'

'I want to join, father!'

His father stared at him.

'I know Potter! I can tell you things about him, things none of you know. Please, I—'

'Don't be absurd. These meetings aren't fun and games.'

'But—'

'Manners, boy. This is adult business, and I want you nowhere near, is that understood?'

Breathing heavily, Draco jumped up and clenched his fists. How dare they! Treat him like a child, and talk about Potter as if Draco was not—as if he wasn't— equal .

He paced up and down along the temple walls. How unfair it all was! Father had always told him everything, and now, he just got the scraps? Now he was to sit and wait outside like some sort of pleb?

How he had been looking forward to hearing everything about the return of the Dark Lord, about what really happened.

"Do not mention the Dark Lord, Draco."

Draco made an angry sound, and a startled bird fluttered away, ripping through the undergrowth.

Anything they did tell him, Dumbledore had told them already. That He had killed Diggory. That He was back. That Potter, somehow, had helped.

Draco had hoped to learn more at home. But they'd said nothing about the ritual. Nothing about the magnificent magic that they had performed. And they had barely mentioned Potter's escape.

"We do not talk about Harry Potter, Draco."

Hadn't Draco seen him return with his own eyes? They probably would've left out that bit entirely, he was sure of it. His father had been unusually tight-lipped and testy about it. Any mention of that evening was shut down quickly and rudely.

"That's of no importance, Draco."

It was Crabbe who'd later told him about the ritual; Goyle was the one regaling him with tales about the strange bout of magic that had helped Potter. Draco hated it. On top of it, he couldn't be sure what was genuinely true and what fabrication.

Weeks later, his father appeased him with the news that Potter faced expulsion, but not even that could placate him — largely because Potter managed to skirt consequences yet again. How he had done it, despite his father having told him that Fudge "had a plan," Draco could only speculate. He had a fair idea who had helped—as usual, but couldn't get anything out of his father.

"I won't have you asking any more impertinent questions, Draco."

Instead, he overheard him and Nott Sr murmuring about Potter's Patronus in the Cigar Room in a tone that could only be described as reluctantly awed.

That night, Draco couldn't sleep, obsessing over the fact that Potter could produce a Patronus when nobody else could, not even Granger.

The following days Draco researched the topic, eager to accomplish what Potter had. It couldn't be that hard, could it?

Oh, what misery to find out that it was more complicated than any other spell he had ever tried. His parents weren't any help at all. His mother just regarded him with one of her strange looks. His father got angry.

"Enough, boy."

Boy.

Draco stomped up and down the temple walls. This was not how it was supposed to be! When the Dark Lord returned, they, the Malfoys, were supposed to be the ruling family. They were supposed to be who mattered most. He was supposed to matter — and not treated like an impertinent first-year!

Instead, his father was hanging around the Ministry around the clock like a minion, throwing about unheard of amounts of galleons, one dinner party chasing another, wherein he, Draco, was made to sit through all of it, never allowed to betray that they were the dullest things on earth.

That's when he was allowed to stay; never for the important meetings.

Draco stopped pacing and glared into the cella of the temple. Its centre was taken up by a huge fire cauldron, filled with cool blue flames of Gubraithian Fire that were licking into the air and fizzed out in blue and violet sparkles into the dome, filling the white room with an eerie light.

He whirled around and clenched his fists. Wasn't he as good as Potter? Better even? Who cared about the Patronus, his marks were far above Potter's, and he was older! He was fifteen, and a Malfoy, too.

He was so caught up in his rage that he only noticed the other boy when he was already halfway across the lawn. Theo calmly walked up the steps to the temple, put down his broom, and sat down on the other side of the column, steadily looking out towards the Lower Lake .

Draco sat down next to him.

Nott leaned back and observed a sole, white peacock that must have lost its way to end up here, at the back of the gardens. A flock of black swans were eyeing it suspiciously, flapping their wings as if to mark their territory.

'You know,' Nott said abruptly, 'I don't know why you're getting so worked up about it. If you ask me, we had better stay out of it. Could get messy soon, and I don't fancy any of that.'

Draco stared at him incredulously.

'Besides, those meetings are hardly fun anyway. Just look at who's attending them. Crabbe and Goyle senior — amazing examples of how a brain doesn't lose the capacity to shrink beyond recognition, though someone's got to do the dirty work, I suppose — McNair, similarly daft, so a match, if you think about it; daddy dearest — haven't seen him in such high spirits since he killed mummy; he's been throwing Cruciatus curses left and right, lucky me —; Avery, an utter bore as you well know—'

'Is this a laughing matter to you?' Draco glared at him.

'Me, laughing?' Theo said in a lofty, uncaring sort of way. 'Hm. No it's all rather miserable, isn't it. At least they're being dreadfully serious about it, aren't they?'

Draco choked in the face of so much nerve. 'What are you – twelve? This is not about fun ! It's not about if you're happy or not. It's about serving the Dark Lord! About restoring Wizarding England to its former glory; about taking the place in society we ought to have! It's about the glory of our houses!'

Theo pursed his lips but said nothing.

'Don't you understand? It's our duty to help them! Even Crabbe and Goyle get to join in!' Draco was breathing heavily, incredulous at his friend's attitude.

Theo rolled his eyes. 'They hexed a bunch of toilets, if I heard correctly. Muggle-baiting is hardly making a mark for yourself.'

His attitude only fuelled Draco's zeal. 'Don't you understand? It's about the cause! The Cause ! Anything that serves the cause is worth it, whatever it is.'

Theo didn't respond.

'Don't you think those Muggles deserve it?' Draco continued more fervently. 'Don't you think they've had it far too good for far too long? Don't you want to be part of it? A part in making our world a better, purer place? A world without Muggles and Mudbloods ?' Draco's cheeks burned, his fringe flopping into his eyes as he talked himself into a rage. ' That is our future! That's what we're supposed to be doing!'

Nott raised an eyebrow. 'The future? And what type of future is that?'

'What—?' Draco blinked. 'Are you daft? Pure-bloods are the future! We are the future! Which is why we ought to have been fucking invited, instead being kicked out as if we're fucking children !' Draco had shouted the last few words. 'But do you know who's not just "a boy", who they're taking seriously—'

'If you say Potter, I'm going to smack you.'

Draco snapped his mouth shut, his eyes burning at Theo.

'If you ask me,' Theo continued, scanning the landscape again, 'he's just lucky. I'm not buying all that rot about him being chosen or special for a second. I bet all of them have just been acting cocky and careless. I bet that they thought they could play with him a bit. And of course, given the chance, Potter's going to get away.'

'What?' Draco frowned, feeling torn.

'It's always Potter here, Potter there, how mysterious he must be, oh, how powerful he must be, because he defied the Dark Lord.' Theo snorted. 'Rubbish. Potter's just got a lot of practise getting out of sticky situations.'

' Stick — facing the Dark Lord isn't just "a sticky situation".'

'Granted. But you don't still believe he's some sort of dark sorcerer, do you?'

'No,' Draco spat. 'No, of course not. I know he's a fucking imbecile! He and that half-wit Weasley just manage because Granger saves them half the time. I know it! I could fucking tell them!' Draco jumped up again, pacing up and down, his robes billowing around him. 'I could tell them what a pathetic excuse for a wizard he is! I could tell them how he does it—'

'Though I will admit,' said Theo, watching Draco's face carefully, 'it is rather curious that he's a Parselmouth. I wonder where he got that from…'

But Draco didn't hear him. He kept striding back and forth, along walls of the temple, muttering furiously to himself. '—everyone knows he wouldn't even have survived the tournament if it wasn't for her! She helped him, I'm sure she did! She always helps everyone. How else would he have won! And I was right there to see it. I was the perfect witness. I know things about them they could never imagine. Why can't they see that? Why won't he just ask me—'

Draco had stopped pacing. He stood there glaring vaguely in the direction of the Lower Lake where the lone peafowl was presenting against the flock of black swans whose long necks were craned in his direction, eyeing the interloper suspiciously.

'Why do you suppose your family's peacocks are white?' Theo said into the pause, almost to himself.

'What?' Draco frowned at his friend, irritated. 'Because they're special, obviously.'

Theo sighed. 'But what makes you say that? Why don't you say it the other way 'round. Why don't you say, for instance, that they're deviant from the norm?'

Draco whirled around to and to look Theo dead in the eye.

'Because they fucking aren't deviant ,' he hissed. 'They are special . They were the first peacocks to ever set foot in England. A diplomatic gift by an Indian Mogul! A rare, special gift to honour Lucius the First!'

'That's how the story goes at least,' Theo commented airily. 'But who knows what really happened. First of all, that story doesn't make sense. Who'd want to have white peacocks when you could have the colourful kind? Pretty curious that you'd gift the sort'—he nodded sharply at the bird walking up and down the lawn—'that lacks the particular characteristic they're revered for.'

Draco stumbled over his words in fury, his hands shaking. 'What's this, Nott? Is this supposed to be some kind of idiotic metaphor? Mudbloods are just as good as pure-bloods? Is that what this is?'

Theo calmly glanced into the beautifully crafted landscape stretching out before him. 'No, Malfoy. It's not a metaphor for Mudbloods and pure-bloods – though I do wonder why you'd think that.'

Draco aggressively turned his back on his friend and continued his pacing.

Theo went on, completely unbothered. 'I'm merely wondering about whether the way we say things are, is the only way they can be perceived. Especially since a lot of the time things are presented to us in a slightly… modified way.'

'Are you a bloody Sphinx? What's that supposed to mean?' Irritation twisted in Draco's stomach.

'It means,' Theo said, his hand feeling along the rough edges of the stones he was sitting on, 'that I can't take the whole pure-blood agenda seriously, seeing as the person we're rallying behind is a half-blood himself.'

Lightning struck, hitting Draco right through the heart.

No, there was no lightning, no thunder, no storm. The sky was as deep blue as ever, and the sun was smiling down on them just as it had.

'The Dark Lord is the heir of Slytherin,' Draco said woodenly. His ears were ringing and his sight seemed off-kilter, as though something had indeed exploded very close to his head.

'Well, half-blood does mean there was one pure-blood—'

'Don't be impossible, Nott!' Draco lurched up, pacing to and fro again, gesticulating wildly. 'Are you implying that—'

'I'm not implying anything. It's common— well, maybe not exactly common knowledge — the Dark Lord would probably Crucio anyone who went around telling people… then again, that's nothing new on the menu; one torture session more or less hardly matters at this point, so—'

Draco cursed and Theo caught himself. 'Point is,' he continued, 'blood-purity is utter nonsense. Bollocks. And rather ridiculous really, considering. It's mind-boggling to me that not any one of those idiots who call themselves pure-bloods are smart enough to recognise this for the huge problem that it is.' Theo twirled his wand in his fingers. 'I mean, you have got to be kidding me. Who'd take us , the grand plan, the holy agenda, the crusade, the cause, or whatever you want to call it, seriously if they knew ? That's what's pathetic.' Theo inhaled deeply. 'And don't get me started on how demeaning it is to be ordered around by someone who doesn't even have a nose .'

'No!' Draco shouted. His face was burning and his hands were clenched to fists at his side. 'You're lying! The Dark Lord comes from one of the purest, oldest Wizarding families—'

'Do you know,' Theo said slowly in infuriating calmness, 'Do you know what his real name is?' Draco's eyes briefly flickered to his friend, but then he looked away and crossed his arms in front of his chest, lifting his chin as if to dare him. 'It's Tom Riddle. Tom fucking Riddle . No, Draco, you did not mishear. It's a Muggle name because his father was a fucking Muggle.'

Draco squared his shoulders. 'But through his mother, he's the heir of Slytherin. He's still a powerful wizard,' he insisted, staring at Theo. 'The most powerful wizard. He's still the Dark Lord.'

'Oh, of course!' Theo laughed derisively. 'No, that's not a problem at all! After all, we don't care about the heritage when the witch or wizard is powerful. That's why you love Granger so dearly, isn't it?'

'This hasn't got anything to do with Granger!' Draco hissed, his eyes burning. His chest felt as though it might detonate any second. He breathed heavily to calm his racing pulse.

A strange look crossed Theos face. 'Oh, but it does, doesn't it. You're either serious about the pure-blood stuff, or you're not. But if you are, then I just don't see how we're blindly following someone who's not even a pure-blood himself!'

Draco couldn't stand to look at his friend anymore. He turned to face the temple with its flaming cauldron, his heart thumping erratically in his chest. The flames danced into the air, painting the white walls of the interior in a deep cerulean. Draco watched transfixed, breathing deeply. The colours changed, from periwinkle to azure, and then like it was a darkening sky, until it was almost violet.

The flames licked at the air, jumping before his eyes, dancing around something purple and flinty in its centre.

All of a sudden, Draco felt exhausted, cold. He dropped to sit on the ground, shivering. His earlier anger at being excluded from the Death Eater meeting was fleeting. Instead, his head swam with confusion and worry and dread; a cocktail of feelings that left him feeling hollow and— exposed.

Draco was overcome by the sudden urge to learn Occlumency. His head was hurting and he needed it to stop.

Theo sat down next to him, stretching out his long legs that made him seem so lanky. There was a great silence between them that Draco didn't want to break, and he was grateful that neither did Theo. Both of them kept staring into the eternal fire, mutely watching the spectacle of the flames engulfing a pair of red shoes and a pebble stone, but never consuming them, until there was only a great calm in Draco's mind, like a sea rushing over a pebble-stone beach.

A/N: Those familiar with book canon will have noticed that this is the Theo-Draco-conversation that was edited out of Order of the Phoenix, though I've made Theo a lot more sympathetic than he was. 1995 has a second part, which will follow next week. The design of the gardens is something I spent far too much time on, if you're curious about the particulars, swing by tumblr or twitter - I'll be happy to divulge all the useless details I couldn't pack into this chapter! Thanks for reading! Lynx