Book 3: Astoria Greengrass and the Legilimens of Hogwarts
Song rec: "Something Rotten" by Placebo
Notes: brief bird death
The month of July had once meant a month of leisure to Draco, but comforts were scarce to all Death Eaters, and Draco was no exception. It was not so much that he never believed he would become a Death Eater, because if the Dark Lord won this war, he probably would have had to. However, at the age of sixteen and with the war not yet won, Draco had thought he was going to get to wait it out like the rest of the Death Eaters' children. The Dark Mark on his arm, which twisted his skin periodically, told him otherwise. Not only was he a Death Eater, he was ordered to kill Albus Dumbledore. Naturally, this made him a very important Death Eater and had stroked his ego. Yet his mother and his emotionally crumbling friend hinted to him that the Dark Lord had no true confidence in him, that this was not merely a "hazing" or "fool's errand," but a suicide mission. It was all because Draco's father failed his duties in the Department of Mysteries. Draco listened to this logic, but he did not wholly accept it. Theodore's, Crabbe's, and Goyle's fathers were also in Azkaban. But Theodore was physically and emotionally weak. Crabbe and Goyle were merely the muscles that Theodore lacked. Only Draco had the strength and the cleverness to even hope to attack Dumbledore, and, like the Dark Lord said, no other Death Eater had any way of getting into Hogwarts unnoticed. So Draco was specially chosen to remove the shame the Malfoy family received from the Dark Lord. Imagine the recognition that would replace it!
Confident or not, Draco knew that Rabastan Lestrange had not been wrong in doubting Draco's loyalty. Draco's loyalty was to his parents more than it ever would be to the Dark Lord. Because of this, he was eager to learn the art of Occlumency from Bellatrix upon his mother's apparently nonchalant suggestion. The pretence she gave to her sister was that Draco would need the skill to face Dumbledore, a known Legilimens. Being able to conceal things from the Dark Lord was a fortunate result of this training, a result which Bellatrix, whom Draco found to be only a mediocre Legilimens, would never consider.
Rabastan, on the other hand, was quite vocal about the Occlumency sessions and was convinced that Draco had many things to hide from "His Greatness." However, Rabastan was never permitted to use Legilimency on Draco for this training. By sheer luck, Bellatrix apparently wanted to bond with her long-lost nephew and did not want Rabastan interfering. What better way for Bellatrix to get to know Draco than to rummage through the surface of his brain? That was how family worked for Bellatrix, and Draco couldn't argue. He had many things to hide from the Dark Lord, but when the time came, he wouldn't be able to extract his memories into a little jar like he could for training. In time, Theodore was also able to get in on the Occlumency training by arguing to Draco's mother that he "knew too much about the plan" and that Dumbledore would capture him. Thus, Draco's mother helped Theodore with what skills she had whilst Bellatrix formally trained Draco.
By the time the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, was sacked in favour of Rufus Scrimgeour, Draco was a better Occlumens than Bellatrix was a Legilimens. He didn't let her onto this, of course. He knew how to fake it. Occlumency was merely a stronger form of what he had a habit of doing anyway: marginalising feelings and shutting out thoughts. Theodore might have even become better than Draco at the art of Occlumency, although the cost of him shutting out his feelings became apparent in his increased reclusiveness.
Morning was the most unpleasant part of the day, though no part of Draco's day was pleasant anymore. Draco would wake from restless sleep and eat breakfast with his mother and the Lestranges as he glared at the newspaper's headlines about "Harry Potter, The Chosen One." He would then assemble a plate for Theodore and bring it upstairs. Theodore would unlock his door, take the food, and lock himself back up to eat. Draco would go back downstairs and scowl whenever he saw the Lestrange brothers through the window harassing his grandfather's peafowl. But one morning was different. Draco's and Theodore's O.W.L. scores arrived. Draco's mother was particularly excited; something as normal as exam results meant to her that her son's future was not wholly ruined. Draco, after glancing at the report, did not think she had very much to be glad about.
Ordinary Wizarding Level Results
Pass Grades
Outstanding (O)
Exceeds Expectations (E)
Acceptable (A)
Fail Grades
Poor (P)
Dreadful (D)
Troll (T)
Draco Lucius Malfoy has achieved:
Astronomy - E
Care of Magical Creatures - P
Charms - A
Defence Against the Dark Arts - E
Divination - P
Herbology - A
History of Magic - D
Potions - O
Transfiguration - E
Draco tucked Theodore's report into the sleeve of his robes. If his mother became curious and wanted to compare their results, Draco was not going to hear the end of it. This report did not reflect Draco's intelligence or skill in any of those subjects. Draco had not studied for anything except Astronomy and Potions. D.A.D.A. and Transfiguration were tests that he crammed for. He had winged the rest of the exams.
"'Acceptable' in Charms, dear?" his mother confronted.
"I didn't study for it. I can still take the class, but it's not necessary. I know what I'm doing."
"'Dreadful' in History of Magic…"
"Nobody cares about that."
His mother smiled slightly. He wondered what her History score had been.
"You've earned six O.W.L.s. I cannot complain. How many N.E.W.T.s do you plan to earn?"
Draco paused. The task given to him by the Dark Lord was worth a thousand N.E.W.T.s if completed. If Draco failed that task, he should hardly be worrying about N.E.W.T.s. That was not something he could say to his mother, though, so he said, "Four — maybe five. Not sure yet, Mother," and excused himself to get Theodore's food.
"Your O.W.L.s are in, Theodore," he said to the door. Theodore opened it much quicker for the O.W.L. results than he ever did for food. He took the letter from Draco and opened it with obsession in his eyes.
"Well, don't just stand there, Draco!" he said, eager to close the door. Draco stepped in, his eyes adjusting slowly to the dim lighting.
"What is in your bathtub?" Draco asked, squinting at a large, dark heap.
"Laundry," said Theodore.
"We have a laundry room that I've encouraged you to use many times… You're living like a hermit. And for Merlin's sake, you're growing the beard to fit the part!"
Theodore moved his arm across his face as if he could wipe the beard away like stray bits of food. Draco lit the lights, nearly expecting to find the room in a state of squalor, but it was actually neater than his. Just a few dirty dishes.
"Well, how are your scores?" Draco asked, as Theodore was muttering "Oh," in triplicate.
"See for yourself," he said with dissatisfaction.
Theodore Alaric Nott, Jr has achieved:
Arithmancy - E
Astronomy - E
Care of Magical Creatures - E
Charms - O
Defence Against the Dark Arts - O
Herbology - E
History of Magic - A
Potions - O
Transfiguration - E
"Only three 'Outstanding' scores!" Theodore griped whilst Draco remembered his only 'Outstanding' score.
"Get over it, Theodore. You've earned every O.W.L. you had."
"An 'Acceptable' in History of Magic! That's the easiest subject!"
"It isn't easy to study for."
"Ughhhh!" Theodore grimaced at his excellent results.
"Stop being a prat, Theodore. What did you say you wanted to do? Write books? You don't need a single O.W.L. to do that, and you have all of yours. Eat your breakfast already."
Sulkily and ungratefully, Theodore munched his mushrooms.
"Tea's gone cold," he said, not making any effort to warm it.
"It's your own fault. Go ask Rodolphus to warm it up for you."
"Shouldn't you be learning Occlumency?"
"I know Occlumency."
"You think you do. You see how far Rabastan Lestrange gets and you might think differently," Theodore said annoyingly.
"He isn't teaching me."
"He should be. It's the only way you'll get better. The Dark Lord can crack you open like an egg, and you know it. Don't you know how to extract memories? That way you can practise with Rabastan safely."
"If I extracted as much as I would need for practice with Rabastan, I wouldn't remember my own name," Draco grumbled.
"Mm, well, I want your opinion about which classes I should drop," Theodore said.
"History of Magic and Care of Magical Creatures," said Draco summarily. "Flitwick won't teach you anything you don't already know, either. Astronomy, you can drop Astronomy."
"Oh, I'm taking Charms," Theodore said affectedly. "And I might as well take Care of Magical Creatures and Astronomy."
"Well, you don't have much else you should quit, then. You weren't thinking of dropping Potions or Transfiguration after all that work…?"
"No, no. I think I'll just quit the history class," said Theodore stupidly.
"Then why'd you even ask me? You're giving yourself way too many N.E.W.T. classes, Theodore," Draco advised.
"Well, which ones are you keeping?"
Draco peeked at his O.W.L. results.
"I can't keep very many… I'm going to need time to… You know…"
"To kill Dumbledore, Draco, you might as well say it."
"All right, arsehole, I need time to kill Dumbledore," Draco said furiously. "Anyway, I'm continuing Potions, Transfiguration, and D.A.D.A."
"That's it? What can you do with those N.E.W.T.s?"
"Less than I can do with this mark on my arm, Theodore!"
"Fine, fine, Mr Dark Mark…" mumbled Theodore. "I, erm, assumed that you would continue with Astronomy..."
"I — oh. Yeah. Yeah, that's only two classes per week now," Draco considered.
"It's a useful course, but the N.E.W.T. is going to kill me if I don't pair up with Astoria…"
"It's going to kill me more than you," Draco protested. "She was my partner last year."
"Well, who else do you think got in?" Theodore asked smoothly, sipping his "cold" tea. "I have to be careful who I'm with. Sinistra loves group work as much as I hate it."
"I don't think many students will continue with it. If the number of students is uneven again, we three can be a group," Draco suggested.
"And if there's an even number?"
"Anyone else who chooses to take this class ought to be really comfortable with it."
"Right," said Theodore. "So, I'll be Astoria's partner, and you can find another one."
Theodore had done nothing but irritate Draco since he stepped foot in the room.
"She'll make the decision," Draco said with hope to end the conversation. Theodore had other plans.
"Her decision will likely be based on who asks her first, though, so I propose we flip a coin."
"Flip a coin? I don't think she would base it on who's first, anyway."
"Your and my marks have been the same in that class. In fact, I bet your chances would only be better than mine if you asked her first. She's only given me hell once, but it seems you two have had a row every other month. Besides, I heard about five minutes ago that school doesn't matter to Mr Special anymore."
"Go on and ask her first, then!" Draco challenged. "See what happens!"
Theodore laughed humourlessly.
"Come off it, Draco. She doesn't like you that much."
Draco was still. Many of the things he had to hide from the Legilimens were surfacing in his mind. Astoria had come back for him at the end of his fourth year when he was out cold from a hex. She had come back for him last month when he was once again cursed by Potter's gang. She had insisted that he be her Astronomy partner at the start of the last school year. She had insisted that no member of the Inquisitorial Squad other than Draco could read her letters home. She had spent the better part of her Christmas banquet with him. She had spent the better part of May studying with him. She had hugged him when his father was arrested. She broke her back to get to his grandfather's funeral, too.
"She… might," Draco said, feeling the gravity of the words in his chest. Theodore stared at him with a cold interest.
"If she does like you," Theodore said pensively, "she won't for long."
When Theodore said that, something that had always been made of glass shattered. As Draco walked out of the room, he should have known better than to pick up those pieces which would cut him. But, as a collector picks up the pieces of a damaged treasure, so too did Draco.
He looked at his Dark Mark at all different angles in his mirror. It was unmistakable. It was permanent. Sometimes the sight of it was empowering, but this was not one of those times.
After temporarily adopting Theodore's approach to summer and spending several hours in bed, Draco was awakened from his half-sleep by his mother, who offered to take him and Theodore to Diagon Alley to get them out of the house. Draco did not feel like he needed to be "taken" to Diagon Alley, and in his huff, he let her know so. She returned with a silly comment about how Diagon Alley was becoming precarious as of late, and Draco nearly reminded her that Death Eaters were his equals and that petty criminals would fear him. Fortunately, he had the sense not to upset her this way, and he agreed to the trip.
The first stop, whether Theodore liked it or not, was the barber's shop. Though a haircut wouldn't hurt Draco, it was Theodore's extra hair that would have been sufficient for a pair of kittens. Despite how careless Theodore had been regarding his personal appearance, he managed to come up with enough specifics about his haircut to irritate everyone in the shop. This delay gave Draco enough time to determine that his curtained hairstyle was due to change.
"Give me something classic," Draco said, his eyes following Theodore's hair and whiskers as they floated to the dustbin.
"That's it?" asked the barber as he finished Theodore's impractical mop top. "'Classic?'"
He looked like he did not believe that Draco and Theodore had arrived together. Theodore, who became more spirited as he admired his haircut in the mirror, told Draco that a standard haircut would look weird on him.
Theodore had been wrong. Draco didn't need all those compliments from his mother to know that he looked good. However, his attractive reflection in the barber's shop seemed to get less and less attractive in each shop window that the small group walked by. Draco, although exhausted, was almost ready to turn back and have a stern word with that barber when Theodore made a memorably unpleasant noise and complained of dementors.
"Dementors?" Draco's mother blurted, drawing her wand. She was the only one amongst them who could cast a Patronus.
"Yes; they are spawning beneath our feet," Theodore said grumpily. He kicked the fog in frustration. "It's this mist. It's making everybody look like that," said Theodore. He pointed to a young couple holding hands whose faces were so sullen that one might have thought the pair had actually just split.
Draco understood that his haircut was still nice, that he had had plenty of sleep, and that watching Theodore stomp futilely on the mist was the best way of preventing the foetal dementors from affecting his mood.
"That isn't doing anything, Theodore," Draco announced bemusedly.
"It's doing something for me," argued Theodore, still kicking. "With all this mist, I assume we'll be hearing some pivotal news soon. If my hunch is accurate, more dementors have defected from Azkaban."
Draco did not know whether to feel good or bad about that possibility. If the dementors were leaving Azkaban, his father would have one less thing to deal with in prison. But free-roaming dementors meant that they could attack anybody, anywhere, and at any time.
Draco and Theodore did not need anything in Diagon Alley for school yet and ended up simply following Mrs Malfoy around. At short intervals, she would turn her head slightly to ensure that they were still there, and no matter where she went, she dragged the boys with her.
"Nobody had better see me here," Theodore said, slouching in a chair of a beauty shop whilst Draco's mother's heels sounded from the level above. "Why can't we go eat whilst she does this?"
"You saw that face she gave me. I'm not asking again," Draco said. "If you want to go somewhere, say so whilst we're walking."
"I don't really want to go somewhere. The booklists aren't even in yet. It's just that she'll follow us. That's all."
"Hey, I don't like it either. But she thinks those dirty street vendors are going to mug us or something, so here we are. Diagon Alley is different, you know."
"Psh. Well, of course peddlers are going to walk up to us; you two dress like you have money! That doesn't mean they're going to kill us. Besides, what would she do with that diamond-studded wand? They'd take one look at it and grab it right from her before she could cast anything."
Theodore didn't get a response. Draco tried to find something to distract himself from the overpowering floral stench of the building, and he succeeded by looking out the window. Covering the front of Gladrags Wizardwear were huge posters announcing that Pariah's newest album was available in the music shop on the second level of the building. The graphics on the posters were a little intimidating. They showed a girl's hands, glowing eerily as if they were ghosts in the sunlight, digging in mud aimlessly. Smudged upon each wrist in the same dirt was the album title, Fylth.
Theodore, having followed Draco's eyes, said, "Clever allegory for the band, isn't it? Some people see it as the twins and Astoria being contaminated by their Mudblood bandmate. The picture shows that there's no blood difference. The mud is a part of nature. Look."
The hands on the poster were actually planting seeds, which sprang into bright lotus flowers in no time.
"I didn't think you liked Mudbloods," Draco said, tearing his eyes from the poster.
Theodore's face flushed.
"I don't like people as a whole."
"Well, I'd keep your Mudblood-loving to myself if I were you," Draco said for Theodore's own good. "Come on, let's check out that album."
"Talk about keeping things to yourself… What would your boss think of you listening to Pariah?"
"You say 'your boss' like it's nothing," Draco said with a bitter smile. "I would know if he was in the area," he informed with a nod toward his left arm.
When Draco and Theodore entered the music shop across the street, the worker there looked very surprised. Diagon Alley must have been scarce of customers for some time.
"May I help you?" he asked eagerly, as though he had been bored for most of the day.
"No, thank you," said Theodore before walking toward the album display and whispering to Draco, "I hate how they always do that…" as though it wasn't part of their job.
Copies of Pariah's album filled the shelves. They had aggressively purple labels stuck on them which read: "EXPLICIT CONTENT." The album had three singles released already, copies of which were far fewer in number but no less forthright as far as cover artwork went. Draco looked cautiously from side to side to ensure that no one would see him. He and Theodore each picked up a copy of the album and turned it over. The back cover had an image of blood-splattered flower petals falling. Over the image floated the track listing:
1. Mire
2. Saccharine
3. Annual
4. Sylhet
5. Sleepless
6. Amabilis
7. Peepers
8. Dunglicker
9. Transfusion
10. Drugged Mug
11. Demerits
"Their last one was angry," remembered Draco. "It didn't get the Ministry's label, though. Astoria's parents are going to love this."
"Hm… Well, we'd best be going. Your mother is going to lose it if she sees we're gone, and it isn't like either of us can purchase this."
Draco had heard a few of those songs at Pariah's only concert, the one where Astoria had forgotten to sing the first few lines of the opening song, the one where she débuted a tirade against her ex-boyfriend… Draco got to thinking that he would never be able to see Astoria sing again. He hardly cared about that, however, when he considered how much danger she was in for having put out something like Fylth. Those Carrow twins had relatives who would not hesitate to point fingers at Astoria when the Dark Lord would ask which blood-traitors were making the biggest ruckus. In that sense, Astoria was in the same category as Dumbledore. And in that sense, the Dark Lord would have every reason to order Draco to kill her, too…
"Whoa, you took a big whiff of that mist when the wind kicked up… Have a seat before you pass out," Theodore instructed.
The pungent smell of the beauty shop invaded Draco's nostrils, and when he raised a hand to his face to cover his nose, he felt ice in his palms.
"We need to learn how to cast Patronus Charms," Theodore said.
"I can't," Draco scowled.
"You can't, or you haven't tried hard enough?"
"I can't. I've been trying for three years. It's never worked."
Mist or no mist, Draco's state of mind did not improve when he got home. The Lestranges were obnoxious as ever when Theodore decided to attend supper, Draco's meal didn't sit well with him, and he had already had too much sleep during the day to be able to fall asleep that night. He thought of Dumbledore, dementors, Astoria Greengrass, and his father. Excluding the year Sirius Black escaped, dementors were supposed to stay in Azkaban, which had been perfectly fine with Draco until his father was sentenced there for life. A few dementors escaped the prison because of the Dark Lord, and they bred like rabbits across the country. There wasn't a soul out there that wasn't appetising enough for dementors. Maybe, by sheer luck, Albus Dumbledore would come into contact with one, and then Draco would not have to fight him. Still, the Dark Lord was exactly like everyone said he was, and Draco was sure that he would come up with somebody else for Draco to murder. Astoria Greengrass should not have been a priority on the Dark Lord's hit list over any other Greengrass, over any other blood-traitor, but the Dark Lord would be delighted to have Draco kill his own friend.
How did I get myself into this?
Ingratiating himself to a Greengrass never should have resulted in this disaster. The tables were turning, and the blood-traitors were going to be spit on instead of buttered up. But Draco had no way of knowing that at first, and by the time he did, he had begun to enjoy Astoria's increasingly rewarding company. She had told him she enjoyed his company, too. She had done an excellent job in finding things she liked about Draco, and he had been left to wonder exactly how much she liked about him, and if it was enough…
Too much, Draco thought. He paced round his room.
I like her too much.
It's not safe for either of us.
It's not fair to Pansy.
Draco rinsed the sweat from his face in his sink. He wondered why he had done so many of those things he had done with Astoria. An extra smile would almost always get an extra smile out of her. A joke would make her laugh and would make her like him more. Sometimes, if he talked soft enough, she would lean in closer, and her hair would fall in some way she didn't want it to, and Draco would watch her play with it. On more than one occasion, he had caught her staring at him, too.
It's not fair to Pansy.
…Or is it well-deserved? asked a sourer part of Draco's mind.
Because although Pansy smiled, and laughed, and stared at him, and played with her hair just as nicely, she had one major failing that Astoria would never have. She was — or at the very least seemed — fake. If she needed to be fake, then why waste the effort? Draco initially did not care about Pansy's overindulgence in him because he truly thought he had earned it. Then he realised, however grudgingly, that nobody could earn that much clinging admiration, but he still did not care because the attention was fantastic. Then, about the same time he got the feeling that Pansy should have outgrown the infatuation, he discovered something offensive. She wanted a Death Eater. She didn't care who it was, but if it was the boyfriend in whom she had seen potential, it would be all the more opportune.
Well, here I am.
Draco glared in the mirror. On one hand, he had a clingy girlfriend who was hoping to find a Dark Mark each time he took off his shirt. On the other hand, he had a miscarriage of a dream who would cry her heart out if she saw the same mark. And which girl did he really want? The one whose sincerity made her more gratifying. But that was the one with whom a relationship would make no sense. The one with whom a relationship could prove fatal. So he had to let go of this idea. Whatever it would take, he had to let go of Astoria Greengrass. He knew one thing: she wouldn't have any trouble letting go of him.
Draco equipped a coin with a Protean Charm and put it in his pocket. He had given the other coin to his mother after spending nearly half an hour arguing with her about going to Pansy's house. "It's not safe," Mother said, and "I'm not sure I like this girl." Well, Draco wasn't sure if he liked Pansy, either, and he was very intent on finding out. Outraged that Draco first chose flying as his means of transportation, his mother instead Apparated him there upon his insistence. She reminded him of the coins. She grimaced at her surroundings and made a comment about the Parkinsons' living near Muggles. Then she left.
It was ten in the morning, the same morning that the Daily Prophet decided to admit that the dementors had all escaped Azkaban and were wilder and more dangerous than ever. Pansy's parents, despite the threat, still had to go to work and were not there when Draco arrived at the house. He rang the doorbell. He had a long wait during which he glanced over his shoulder countless times to check for stray dementors. At least they were not harassing his father any longer…
"Draco, you got a haircut! I love it!" Pansy exclaimed through the crack in the door when she finally answered. She swung it open and barely let him into the house before she kissed him. She walked him over to the couch in her parlour and kissed him more fervently.
"What brings you here?"
"You."
Pansy smiled even wider and lay back on the couch, giving him a pretty good view of her upper thighs thanks to her shorts. A tight, chequered sleeveless shirt covered not much of the rest. The forbidding wait on the doorstep must have been due to her changing into this. They talked about nothing important, then she took his hand in hers and stood up.
"What time do you have to leave?"
"Er… An hour or so, just so Mother doesn't panic."
"Want to see my room?"
Oh. Why not?
Draco allowed himself to be led upstairs, enjoying the view. They stepped into her bedroom, and she turned toward him with her eyebrows raised, perhaps waiting for some irrelevant opinion of his about her décor. What could he say? The walls were pale pink. There was a bulletin board with thick ribbon crosshatched over it, holding various cut-outs of newsprint. She had a large dresser with a desk built into it, a jewellery box that mostly held things Draco had bought her, and a girlishly decorated letter box. Her bookshelf was packed, which was a little unexpected, because Draco rarely saw her with a book. Her bed looked comfortable, so Draco took the liberty to sit on it. He checked himself in the mirror on her closet door. He guessed he looked all right. Pansy was staring at him, fidgeting with her shirt and her hair.
"I'm, er, going to get a butterbeer. Do you want one?" she offered.
"Yeah. Thanks."
She left Draco alone in the room. He didn't really know what he should do, so he decided that his current assignment was merely to wait for the butterbeer. That got boring at the same rate at which Draco got very restless. He stood up to get a better look at the things Pansy had on her bulletin board. He wished he hadn't. She had clipped out articles from the Daily Prophet about the Azkaban breakout dating as recent as the middle of July. The Ministry was looking for leads on the escapees, and apparently, so was Pansy. That was not all.
She had several newsprint copies of the same two mug shots — "Rabastan Harbin Lestrange, 3 December 1981," and "Rabastan Harbin Lestrange, 3 December 1991" — the older of which she had a copy of a colour photograph. She had articles on her own parchment that she had obviously copied from the newspapers in the school library. They were all on the subject of the Longbottom torture case and were too disturbing to read. Draco stepped away. He approached her dresser, eyeing the glittered box decorated with paper flowers. He opened it and saw his letters to her on the right. There were other things on the left. She had a copied picture of the 1977 Slytherin Quidditch team. Rabastan was the Keeper. She had a picture of the graduating Slytherin Class of 1980. Rabastan was short, so he stood in the front.
Pansy also had an antique document that listed the Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood families, which she had defaced in messy black ink, crossing out the names Crouch, Greengrass, Ollivander, and Weasley. The parchment was completely sliced through where the name of Longbottom was supposed to be. Draco set the document down and nearly feared what he would next see. The only thing left was a thick roll of parchment. It had been perfumed. It contained a collection of poetry in Pansy's handwriting, the longest of which Draco chose to read:-
Such splendour wrapped round gnarled branches
And majesty in its decay
Drew me to a rotted tree
On one unlucky day
Though many trees along the path
Were bountiful and green,
It was the sickly one I studied
And watched its insects teem
I drew nearer to this rancid nature
And questioned in my head,
"How is it that it blossoms,
When clearly it is dead?"
No passer-by could answer
The question I proposed,
For no one saw the blossoms
Or smelt the honeyed rose
"This putrid tree should be cut down,"
I heard the people say
They rallied up the lumberjacks,
Told me to run away
Yet from that spot I could not leave,
Though clearly nothing flourished,
The beauty left me fascinated
The lack of fruit, malnourished
Draco put everything back in order and felt he should remain standing rather than returning to the bed. Pansy returned with the butterbeer, so he pulled out the chair from her desk.
"Are you okay, Draco? Is something wrong?"
"No. I'm okay."
"I'm sorry it took me so long. I know you prefer butterbeer hot, so I warmed it up."
"It's perfect. Thank you."
"Erm, so I've been meaning to ask you something — I know it's kind of a strange question, but… I remembered something, and I wanted to check with you…"
"Yeah?"
"Well, when your mother wrote you about… You know… Erm, well, she made it sound like your aunt was going to try to contact you…"
"What about it?"
"Did she contact you? …I mean, it worries me, don't you know? Look at all these articles they have about those Death Eaters… The Lestranges are still out there after the Ministry battle…"
"No, she hasn't contacted us," he lied. "I mean, not yet anyway."
"Oh…"
Pansy absentmindedly moved to drink more butterbeer, and she was soon sweeping it from her neckline with embarrassment.
"Well, that's good, then, isn't it?" she managed to say.
"It is. You must be, er, really worried about these Death Eaters. But you're pure-blood."
"They like pure-bloods especially, don't they?" she squeaked.
"Well, yeah."
"Do you think I should be worried?"
"Not, er, not really."
"Okay," she said cheerfully. "Oh, don't you like your butterbeer? It'll get cold."
"I was only slightly thirsty," Draco said.
"Do you want anything else?"
Pansy walked over to put her goblet on the desk. She ran a hand through his hair, examining how he parted it differently from before.
"I'm not used to this yet," she giggled. "I like it."
She slinked to her mirror and lifted her hair.
"I might get mine cut just a bit. It's getting too long. Maybe I should lighten it, too… And my fringe hides my face! What do you think?"
Draco shrugged.
"Anything will look good on you."
"You're sweet," she said, falling onto her bed. "Come here."
It was different from the usual. Her clothes were really coming off… like, off off. He still had his despite Pansy's efforts. This was definitely not the time for her to see his shiny new Dark Mark. Not when she was writing creepy poems… Not when his aunt's brother-in-law was staring at him from the wall…
Pansy asked him what was wrong a couple of times because she could see his face, so he went for her neck so as not to be bothered. Again, she tried to take off his shirt. Again, he thought of that Dark Mark and how he would much rather have her think of him as Draco and not some Death Eater analogous to Rabastan Lestrange.
Pansy was kissing behind his ear when he saw her bookshelf, not because he was trying to — he definitely did not want to know what was there in that moment — but merely because of the angle. His body was not losing track of Pansy, but his mind hardly had the choice. On the bookshelf were huge publications titled Wizengamot: The Crouch Report of December 1981, The First Wizarding War, and Inside Azkaban: Public Reports from the Azkaban Security Officials' Office. In addition, there were several worn, creased, and yellowed paperbacks with sensational titles such as The Ones Who Got the Longbottoms, What the Public Doesn't Know about the Lestrange Trial, Love and Lestrange: Secret Motives behind the Longbottom Case, and Downright Dirty: Untold Stories of the Death Eaters. There was a brand new paperback laying horizontally on top of the others with a bookmark in it. It was titled Death Eaters in the Ministry of Magic! The Battle of the Department of Mysteries. That was the battle that had cost Draco's father everything.
"Draco…" Pansy interjected grumpily.
They really weren't getting anywhere. Draco drew back from her and swung his legs over her bed. He thought quickly.
"Sorry, my mother's trying to contact me," he said, and he pulled out the coin from his pocket, turning it over and pretending to read a message. Before Pansy could see that there was nothing there, Draco stood up.
"What's she want?" Pansy whined, luckily having no knowledge of Protean Charms. "Surely she ought to let you out of the house every once in a while."
"I'm sorry, Pansy, I've got to go. Theodore's having a, erm, meltdown of sorts, and my mother can't deal with him. He's, er, retching and everything, it seems."
"Theodore's always having some sort of meltdown!"
Draco grunted, half-agreeing, half-defensive. Pansy didn't realise how effortlessly she had ruined his mood with her choice of literature.
"Where's your Floo powder?" he asked.
"Floo powder‽ We only have a little bit left! What am I supposed to tell my parents when they see it's gone?"
"What? I've been here before."
"Yeah, when they were here! And now that… now that your dad's in prison, they don't want me dating you!"
"I don't know what to tell them, Pansy! Just figure something out!" Draco said, making for the fireplace in her parlour and searching the mantle for the Floo powder storage. They kept theirs in a vase. He took it as Pansy was scurrying down the steps mostly naked, perhaps with an idea that she could stop him. Instead, she started blubbering that she was sorry, and she stole a kiss goodbye. Her skin was so soft and flushed… He didn't really want to leave, but he was so upset the mood was now non-existent. Poems about Rabastan? Really?
"I'm sorry, Pansy, I'll see you later," he said quickly.
Draco stormed through his drawing room and made for the kitchen. He poured a tall glass of his grandfather's wine and drank it uncouthly over the sink. From the window, he spotted Rabastan using the Cruciatus Curse on one of his grandfather's peahens. Enough was enough. In Draco's anger, he bolted out the back door to confront this man he normally feared. Draco wasn't especially fond of animals since they often bit, chased, or otherwise maimed him, but Rabastan's behaviour was out of pure sadism. Seeing Draco, Rabastan lifted the curse from the hen. And then he killed it. He killed it because he was jealous of creatures that were still more human than he.