Notes: Hello, Happy Holidays. So this is the second part this story and judging by how far I've gotten into the plot this story will take forever to finish... But I'm going to try my best. Things will get darker as it goes along but so far it's kind of light and cheerful. It'll get worst for Draco. Believe me! Special hugs go out to Blackswan15 (lodestar) for helping me beta the story, Thanks for poking at it! ^_^ Disclaimer at the bottom of the page, basically I don't own the Harry Potter characters. Also the poetry used here doesn't belong to me but to Emily Dickinson, I claim no credit.




Draco Demon
Part 2: Poetry.

I headed for the kitchen, hoping to make it there without being stopped. But my luck did not hold and my mother caught up with me on the way.

Her beautiful blond hair was swept up and away from her face, immaculate as always. She sliped gracefully into step with me and we walked along in companionable silence. I looked over at her and watched as she pursed her lips contemplating her thoughts.

I waited for her to speak as we walked together down the long hall. When we arrived at the end of the hall, I turned to the left to continue my walk. But she reached out a manicured hand and stopped me. I looked at her and was stuck again at how short she seemed now a days. I had grown taller at Hogwarts and returned home to find that I could almost look my parents in the eyes.

"Draco, I wish to ask you something."

"Yes mother?"

She preened the sleeve of her dress. "Have you given any thought to what you'd like do when you leave Hogwarts?"

That had not been what I'd expected. "I thought I would be following Dad..."

"Are you prepared to do that?"

Is this a test? Was he testing my loyalty to him by asking Mom to question me? I had no problem with helping Voldemort. It was what I wanted, proud to know that Dad trusted me and wanted me by his side. I was certain that I would serve Lord Voldemort and uphold the family name. But under my mother's apprising gaze I faltered, unsure of whether I SHOULD say anything. But she continued oblivious... or maybe aware of my confusion.

"I mean, do you have anything YOU want to do?"

That took me back, and I found I didn't know how to answer her. Father never asked me these types of questions. He was very strict and always pushing me to do my best and make my family proud. I was taught to be a 'Malfoy' no matter what. But he didn't question what I thought or felt. Mom was the one who would take me aside, worry about me, and ask how I was feeling.

She questioned me.

At the time I didn't even know what she meant. I wanted to follow my father's footsteps, to be respected and feared, to prove myself. I didn't think I even had any dreams of my own, then. I stared at her and she must have seen something in my face, for she reached out and touched me her expression almost sad.

"Its ok. Don't worry about it, I'm sure you'll make us very proud." She turned from me her dress swirling around her legs as she walked toward the far corridor.

"Yes, mother." I said to her withdrawing form. Although I couldn't shake the feeling that I had failed some sort of new test I don't even know existed. I watched her glide down the hall, but right before she would have turned the corner she swung back around. Her crystalline voice floating out to me across the long hallway.

"Don't forget Draco, your father is returning from his business trip tonight, you may want to tidy up."

Then without another word, she turned and walked away.

"Yes mother." I said to the vast empty hall. Sighing I ran a hand through my hair feeling a little... lost. It was not a comforting feeling. So I pushed the turmoil away with a shake of my head. Trying to figure her questions out always made my head hurt. She was there for me and listened to me, but... she usually raised more questions then she answered.

I never notice this quality about her until the day I asked about poetry.

Poetry was always my bane. My tutors talked about it as if it held all of the meaning of the world. Only I could never seem to see what was so great about it.

So I ask my mother since she seemed to know everything. I handed her my book and waited. She opened it to the middle and read from the first poem she saw.

"Because I could not stop for Death,
he kindly stopped for me;..."

Turning an appraising eye on me she stopped to inspect the book. Finding all to be in order she closed the book and handed it back to me. She seemed about ready to go back to her setting of the dinning room until I interrupted her again.

"What does it mean?" I said, unhappy to be asking for help, even for something this minor.

She looked down at me. "Do you understand them?"

"Sort of, they're different stories about this woman and all the little things in her life. But, what do they mean? Why did she write them? They sort of make sense only, they don't."

"They're poems, Draco," she said. "They're nebulous. The meaning can be different for each person. It all depends on how much importance and insight they hold for you."

"But how can they do that? I mean they're just stories, they can only mean certain things."

"You'll see, Draco. Right now it may seem strange but you'll understand in time."

"Why can't you tell me now?"

"It's always better to figure out difficult things for your self," and that was the end of her discussion on poetry. It was the first time I really felt that she wasn't answering my question so much as bringing up other things for me to ponder.

Dad on the other hand, was always so much more straightforward about things. So I asked him about poetry too, unsatisfied with Mom's cryptic response.

I handed him the book and he did just as Mom had, flipping to some random page and reading the first poem he came across.

"I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you a nobody, too?..."

But unlike Mom who seemed to treat the poems like my tutors, my Dad only laughed.

"Is this what your being taught by those pathetic teachers your Mom insists on hiring? I'll have a talk with them. You would be better served learning things you can actually use, like spells, charms, and curses."

I felt relieved that father found poetry laughable. I had the same reaction when my tutors first showed me the book. But I was still curious, what was all the fuss about? "They keep saying I don't understand them."

"Of course they do." My father smirked and leaned down conspiratorially. "Draco, listen, let me tell you a secret. These poems that seem so hard to figure out, they can mean whatever you want."

I must have looked like someone had punched me, my dad continued. "All you have to do is back up your idea. Look for all of the parts that support your interpretation and use them to prove you're right."

He handed my book back. "Usually so long as you argue well enough, you can make them believe that the poem means nearly anything."

"Really?"

"It's only words," and with that he went back to his work.

So I tried his suggestion, I found it worked remarkably well. I actually enjoyed learning poetry if only for the confrontation of ideas that ensued. Unfortunately, I wasn't taught much poetry after my dad's 'talk' with my tutors. But while it lasted I had piles of fun convincing them of my nonsensical meanings.

With a shake of my head I dismissed the strange nostalgic meandering of my thoughts. A conversation with Mom was a lot like poetry, a battlefield of meanings. Most of the time I just followed Dad's advice.

She had to be testing me.

I abandoned my path and headed back to my rooms. Dad would be home for dinner and I wanted to hear what new developments had sprung up. And whether or not I'd be getting a new broom this year.

I hoped he wouldn't complain, again, about how my grades were lower then that mudblood, Granger. SHE didn't practice 2-4 hours most nights for Quidditch games. And well, she HAD to study so she could make up for her lack of natural ability and breeding. Filthy mudblood.

I should look around for that book Dad had hidden somewhere, the one that never ends. That would keep her from studying her muddy brains out all the time.

Thinking pleasant thoughts of sabotaging Potter's friends I went back up to my room and changed for supper. There was no use in trying to find the two items to open the jar now. Mother would have the kitchen full of servants and house elves.

I'd have to wait till after dinner to get them.

~~~~

Thanks to Sam and blackswan15 (lodestar) for reviewing the last chapter I know that I move like really slow but I'll try harder. =)

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. (it's true)