Chapter Five: According to Draco Malfoy
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Notes: Finally, I have the chance to write from Draco's point of view. My absolute favorite part to write, and therefore the longest because I can. More excuse for slash. Or rather, slash is the excuse for this chapter.
More sweet-heart bad boy Malfoy, which means one thing: le-blanc-jasmin has to be the dedication.
For Sorceress Jade, as well, who should not be confused given that the same story has essentially been told at this point by four different people, unless you disclude Hermione because she was so far into her own little world ...
JK Rowling, what can I say? For not putting Lucius away sooner and corrupting a perfectly marvelous little blond mind. Also for making Harry Potter a Barbie doll and leaving Ron Weasley out of the limelight once again. Oh, what the hey: for that most awesome and creepy cardboard cut-out at Borders, too -- just for good measure.
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Having composed himself greatly, Malfoy summoned the unfortunate house-elf clad in a blanket-kilt to request supper be taken in the lounge. The house-elf scurried away in silence to the kitchens to inform its fellow house-elves, and Malfoy turned his attention to his guests.
"I'm sorry if you don't find my story as important as yours, Miss Granger, but I do, so you will be hearing it." Hermione blanched save for her cheeks, which flushed pink in embarrassment. Malfoy continued smoothly, "Of course, you already know the majority of my tale, as it had already been told by Mr Potter and Ron, but I do have an advantage in telling it, as I happen to have my own perspective in it all.
"Therefore, I will expect the courteous audience which has been present for the rest of your stories while my truth comes into light," he paused ever so slightly, pale eyes moving from face to face, "and I expect that some opinions shall be changed by the time I've finished."
*
As a Malfoy, I have always been expected to uphold certain standards for my father. My mother was always busy with whatever fling she was involved with at the moment, and I suppose that in some ways it was better that I understood it was happening at the time. It left for little to be surprised about when one of her more unfortunate gentleman callers arrived on the doorstep and was chased from the property by curses my father threw at him.
My father had always worked for the Ministry; he had always worked for the Dark Lord. I understand that some of us are able to drop the Dark Lord's true name as though it were yours or mine, but I have never been able to do so, not even while standing right in front of him. My father was one of the more loyal Death Eaters, and he could say the name whenever he pleased with no trouble at all -- and he did, every chance he was given. He recruited more subjects for the Dark Lord than any other of his kind, and he was rewarded for it in full. My mother ignored this, and pretended it was his job which supported us so well.
As a child I had no true understanding of my father's loyalty to the Dark Lord. It became habit to act haughty and superior in my father's presence, and when I began schooling at Hogwarts it was no different. The high-and-mighty facade was one I wish I had not brought with me to school, because it cost me more than I should have liked to lose.
I was eleven years of lies, manipulations, and secrecy when my first year began. Therefore, I made enemies easily. I quickly sorted those who could be manipulated and those who couldn't, and I kept those unfortunate souls whose minds could be formed at my whim close. However, in light of the old saying, I kept my enemies just as close if not closer, and made a fast habit of exposing the flaws of my rivals before they could expose mine. It was particularly easy for me to deny Weasley his right to be of sound mine. Somehow seeing him writhe in anger and loathing for me was an outlet into which I poured all of the spite I held for my evil father and disloyal mother.
Each year, as I grew and matured, I found that lowering others around me did little for my own benefit. I was popular with the others in my house, most of whom had already become as good as Death Eaters because of their parents and that which was expected of them. It became disgusting to me, but even more unbearable was the difficulty I had shaking off the name I had made for myself -- the name my father had made for the family so many years ago.
And even though I had promised myself I would attempt to shed the shadow my name cast, I slipped severely on several occasions. Fourth year, especially, was difficult for me, as Pansy Parkinson had it in her mind that I should be the one to allow that nasty Rita Skeeter an inside glimpse of Harry Potter and of Hagrid for her columns. She forced me to do it, to tell Skeeter what she wanted to hear. Parkinson threatened to go to my father or to Professor Snape, who had always been fond enough of my father to keep a close eye out for me. When I still refused, she knocked me out with a spell and took the infamous Polyjuice Potion and a bit of blood she took from me while I was unconscious; she fed Skeeter a pile of lies which the woman ate up as though she were one of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts, their appetites never-ending.
It was actually before all of the betrayal involving Parkinson that I truly found myself shedding the horrid nature expected of a Malfoy. A perfectly marvelous autumn afternoon had been ruined by the utter stupidity of Crabbe and Goyle, who had proclaimed themselves my personal guards as soon as I'd met them. That story is irrelevant, and so I begin this one with my sanctuary in the Great Hall.
I was experimenting with a weather charm I had learned from Professor Flitwick the previous winter, and I had managed a pretty little snowstorm over the table when Potter came in. Not wanting him to see this resigned side of me quite yet, I made sure he saw me throw a hastily made snowball into the midst of some girls at the next table. He seemed unimpressed and sat down with me.
"What do you want, Potter?" He was there without Weasley or Granger, both of whom I continually heckled for various reasons they could have easily sloughed off had they ever thought of the correct thing to say. He had been watching me with interest from the door, and this made me nervous. Nervous enough that I faltered in speaking.
He seemed to notice, but merely shrugged in response.
"Where are Weasel and Mudblood, then?" I carefully used the nicknames for his friends which I understood angered the three of them, but he still remained fairly unfazed.
"Where are your goons Crabbe and Goyle?" I lay my wand aside, impressed with his comeback. One of them seemed to be learning how to cope. His eyes wandered to the ceiling, which continued to be the same shining blue it had been since he had entered.
"What's the matter with you, eh?" He was startled that I spoke to him again, and he blinked across at me in surprise. "You aren't here with your friends. You choose to sit here, but don't mock me in any way. Supper's not for two good hours, Potter, what good is it to be here now?" I repeated my words in my mind to test if I'd forgotten anything in my summary of the situation. Satisfied, I waited for his reply.
"I was bored." Interesting; he had bypassed the ideas I had been coming up with in silence with a perfectly legitimate excuse. Apparently he thought I expected more of a reason from him, because he went on to say, "Look, what do you want me to say? That I came down here just to bother you, Malfoy, just to see how I could further make an enemy out of you?"
The enemies I had now were more numerous than any I had ever had -- and Harry Potter was not an enemy I wanted to have. I knew what had happened when the Dark Lord had attempted to kill this boy, I knew how powerful he was, despite the marks he had in his classes.
"No." The words came from my mouth in a most delayed manner. The many thoughts in my mind were slowing the ability of my mouth to form the words.
But it was true, I did not want him as an enemy. In fact, Harry Potter was a person I would rather have fighting by my side. In the sunlight from the ceiling, his skin glowed and his eyes were undeniably his most attractive feature. Perhaps I would rather have him by my side in another way all together ...
"No," I repeated, coming out of my rapidly clouding thoughts, "I don't want you to say that."
And then a thought came into my mind that had nothing to do with our conversation. A memory, it was, which brought my odds with Potter as much more than an enemy up to a most suitable level. I glanced around the room to be sure that no one was watching us, but it was more for Potter's comfort than my own. I was sure that he would not like this information heard by those chattering Hufflepuff girls at the next table, the ones at which I had aimed my snowball.
"I saw what happened after Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup last spring," I said in an undertone. His eyes grew very round very quickly. However, he remained silent, as though it would go away if he didn't acknowledge my words. I decided to press the issue, seeing that it made him squirm in discomfort. "Have you been writing to Wood, Potter? Do you miss him very much?"
His eyes flickered toward the door, but he remained in his seat. I had him hooked, and I was most pleased. And then he said something which made me question my own memory of the event.
"He was a great Quidditch player," Potter said in a dull tone.
"Yes," I said, now puzzled more than I should have been. I hadn't imagined it ... had I? "Yes, he was ... Quidditch suited him ... "
"What were you implying, Malfoy?" He was on the defense now. Good, it meant that I had, indeed, remembered it correctly. I waved my hand absently, making him more nervous than ever. Again, he glanced to the door.
"Nothing, Potter, nothing. Never mind." I cleared my throat then, watching him as I got to my feet and contemplated leaving it at that. But now I was eager to have Harry Potter in a place that only one other person had ever gotten him -- and I was going to take full advantage of it. I said, "I saw him kiss you, Harry. I know I did not make it up. But if you want to pretend that it never happened, then be my guest." And I left.
I am not stupid. In leaving the Hall, I wanted him to follow me out of the curious stares of those irritating Hufflepuffs. I made my way at a normal pace down the corridor until I heard his footsteps echoing on the stone floors, and only then did I duck into a side corridor and wait for him to come after me. When he turned the corner I grabbed the front of his robes and pressed him to the wall.
It hadn't occurred to me that I might have been a bit rough until he muttered, "Ouch," and closed his eyes, swearing under his breath. I faltered slightly; I didn't want to see him in pain -- it always hurt me to see anyone in pain, let alone anyone so good-looking. When he opened his eyes, recognition dawned on his face, and he said, "Um, Malfoy, I -- "
"Potter, I hold information that you don't want leaking into the public," I told him. He looked a bit frightened, but fright never held him back from anything before, so I did not worry. "Promise me you'll do as I say, and it won't become tomorrow's hot gossip with the Hufflepuff girls. Promise?"
He nodded, and I kicked a brick just above the floor, which triggered the door of the passage Potter mentioned earlier in his own version of the tale. Again, I pinned him to the wall while the door grated closed again, pressing myself closer to ensure that he would not attempt to break away.
The fact that he did not seem to realize what I was about to do startled me a bit. I was shaking, nervous, as I kissed him. True, it was the first time I had ventured to kiss another boy, but it was not something I would ever take back if given the option -- even then I would not have taken it back. As I lifted myself from the kiss, I didn't want to pull away altogether. But I was, indeed, rattled, as I was unsure how Potter would react to it; before I could help myself I was crying. My father's son, I had not cried in ten years, and the salt water stung my eyes in a cleansing ritual Nature herself designed.
When I did pull away, I was not sure what to do next. I licked my lips nervously and tasted Potter. It was both unnerving and satisfying to taste him on me.
Potter opened his mouth uncertainly, and I cringed, not wanting him to say what I could hear echoing through my mind -- a fat rejection. Instead, he breathed deeply; and he whispered, "I promise."
I told him to meet me somewhere unobtrusive, I can't remember where now, and swept out of that passage with my hands shaking as though I had just seen the face of the Dark Lord.
I could tell that Potter continued to meet with me because he was worried that I would allow the kiss he and Oliver Wood shared to become public knowledge, but it could not have been much farther from the truth. I hardly gave thought to that kiss -- it was the kisses we shared which filled my mind. And we shared many kisses. In that secret passage, in other secret passages, in corridors when we were late to class, late-night outings to deserted classrooms and walkways and alcoves, early mornings on the Quidditch pitch before practice ...
It was dizzying, to feel to strongly about another person. I had never realized that I didn't love my parents until I became involved with Harry Potter. Even more difficult that telling him how I felt, however, was admitting it to myself. It had taken too long for me to be able to love. And maybe that's why Dumbledore invited me back to Hogwarts.
In any case, the infamous summer before sixth year rolled around. But instead of missing Potter more than when we were in the same building, I missed him much less. Out of sight, out of mind, it seemed to be, and before long I was neglecting to write any letters at all. I found my thoughts drifting to one of Potter's familiars -- Weasley.
The more I thought about it, the more I wanted the redhead. I remembered asinine things about him that convinced me that he would accept me with open arms. His petty squabbles with Granger, his unhappiness at the Yule Ball with Padma Patil, his disinterest towards girls as a whole. Not that he showed any significant interest in boys, either; but perhaps the idea had never occurred to him.
So I sent him an owl presenting all of this information. I was torn between being shocked and perfectly delighted that he actually replied to my owl -- and soon we were regular pen pals, writing back and forth about anything that came to mind. Potter was lost among trivial facts about Ron Weasley.
On the train to Hogwarts that autumn, I waited for Ron anxiously. We had agreed to meet early, because Ron, as loyal as he was, had to sit with Potter and Granger in another compartment. At first I thought he wouldn't be coming after all -- and then I saw his mother and Ginny come onto the platform. I was elated, but tried not to show it. He came onto the train after a quick goodbye to his mum and then climbed aboard and found me.
He was so shy. I found it entirely endearing, but he was embarrassed by it. Sitting in the seat beside me, we exchanged friendly 'hello's' as though we always sat together on the train, and began to talk about how the last few days before then had gone. He caught sight of Potter through the window and hastily got to his feet, heading for the compartment he had seen Granger climb into moments before. I grabbed him by his robes and spun him around roughly, catching his lips with my own in a sweetly chaste kiss. Dazed and slightly pink, he stumbled out of the compartment, flashing a grin at me over his shoulder.
Sixth year was brilliant. Ron and I met secretively even more often that Potter and I had. But we didn't always kiss or fool around physically; much of the time we talked for hours about nothing seemingly important. To us, though, it was important -- all of it was, even if we were simply talking about the meal that afternoon in the Great Hall or the exam in Latin or the new charm learned from Professor Flitwick that day, it was important.
The next summer, however, we both suffered severe withdrawal from one another. I missed him so much it ached; more often than not, an owl every week was not enough for either of us. When I slept, I dreamed of him, and while I was awake, I saw him from the corner of my eye every time I entered a room. This summer, it was almost too simple to realize and admit to myself that I was in love.
Now, in an attempt to have me become the youngest Death Eater on record, my father taught me to transfigure myself into whatever animal I desired. Soon I was one of the most talented animagus I knew of, and I was happy with being able to slip away in the form of a black cat. But my father did not know this. Unless I was completely alone, my attempts at a cat were fudged, and I ended up a catfish writhing on the floor, all 'accidents' on my part. He became frustrated and gave up.
What Ron never knew was that I registered with the Ministry right away, and they assigned me to keep close tabs on my father if I so desired. I told them that, if anything unusual happened on our estate, I would be the first to tell them.
But most of my summer was spent at Ron's house. After the slight confrontation with his mother, the most darling woman I have ever met, I was as welcome at the Burrow in my feline form as any of the Weasleys or Hermione and Crookshanks. When we were safely in Ron's room, I was human, and we discussed those importantly trivial matters or held one another or shared another sweet kiss. When we ventured outside, when his mother made him chase the gnomes out of the garden or he simply wanted a bit of fresh air, we slipped into the wood nearby and I could become human again safely. We would climb trees and lay out on the ground to watch clouds swim across the sky until nightfall, when we would count stars until we were dizzy and his mum called him inside. Then I became the cat and another evening of being curled up at Ron's feet was just as comforting as being in his arms as he walked up the stairs.
Seventh year was just as brilliant as sixth. However, this year we had the inevitable graduation from Hogwarts to loom over us, nearly spoiling many lovely moments together around the school. And when the day finally rolled around that we could avoid it no longer, Ron came to me in our most frequently visited secret passage.
"Draco," he said, his tone more serious than in all the time I'd been with him, "we can't last very much longer together, can we?"
I went numb. Love is fleeting, like happiness -- shouldn't it be gripped tightly and held onto whenever possible? But, understanding that after school ended he would probably be going into Ministry like the rest of his family and I would be taking my mother's job while fighting off Death Eaters eager to have me join their ranks, I was forced to agree that we should end it now, before it became too difficult.
But, damn it, it already was too difficult. We didn't end anything until the Leaving Feast on that last evening possible. So, after the Feast, we slipped into our favorite place in the entire castle, a veranda on a tower which overlooked the lake, and said goodbye.
After finishing my education at Hogwarts, I returned to the school upon request of Dumbledore -- I did not take the job offered to me by my mother's employer, as Ron had thought. To this day I don't quite understand why he would want me back in that school, not with who my father was, not with how close I was to the Dark Lord throughout my entire life. I was not kept at Hogwarts as a professor, though one day I hope to take Snape's class if ever he decides to leave.
I work as assistant to Dumbledore, when he wants to send a message or anything, but mostly I work alongside Filch and Mrs Norris. The thought has crossed several students' minds -- yes, cats can see through Invisibility Cloaks. But mostly we don't disturb those students, because they're usually under the impression that they're solving mysteries, as Potter used to do. I patrol the school most of the day, unless I'm summoned -- not magically; when someone comes and finds me -- but rarely am I noticed. I have a nice little room in the castle, where I sleep and read and write letters to various people.
It's quite a peaceful life, and if I had to live my life over again, the only thing I would change would be to not give up Ron so very easily at the end of our seventh year.
*
Potter looked astounded. "You mean you've been right under my nose for the past decade and I haven't even realized it?" Malfoy nodded, melancholy amusement settling into his features.
"But that was the point, wasn't it?" he said thoughtfully. "To becoming a cat, I mean. To be able to be places I would not usually consider very safe or positive places to be."
Potter's amazement did not falter, but Hermione looked positively delighted. "You've been at Hogwarts as well? How thrilling! But ... "
"But what?"
"But, Draco," she said, "if you've known all along that Harry has been at Hogwarts, why did you seem so interested in his position there?" Malfoy smiled knowingly, nodding slowly.
"Well, Miss Granger, it would have ruined my story, would it not?" Her brow furrowed.
"I suppose ... " She still remained confused, but allowed the subject to be left alone without another word.
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