A/N More catching up, but the next chapter will be back to normal. Thanks
to everyone who is still reading and I apologize for the delay. Next
chapter will probably be up in a day or two. K
Sunday morning, Christmas morning. Draco stared moodily at the low fire in the grate and sighed. Happy Christmas, you stupid bastard, he sneered at himself. When he'd finally come to on Friday evening, he'd been woozy and disoriented. The stupefy spell had been a powerful one. Either Weasley was a much stronger witch than he'd imagined, or she'd been on the verge of panic when she'd hexed him. It was possible that she was a bit of both. Not that it mattered. She had somehow gotten him into this cell, wherever it was, and had locked him up. After getting his bearings, he'd gone over every inch of the cell, looking for a way out. The cell was solidly made, however. There were no loose bars, no hidden passages through the stone walls, and, without his wand, no way to use magic to get out.
He could not believe that Weasley had actually locked him up! How dare she? It was humiliating! First she'd acted like he didn't even exist. Then she had nearly unmanned him with her dirty fighting tricks. Finally, she'd unexpectedly hexed him when he'd—well—not expected it. She was just full of surprised, lately. He hated to admit that he had completely underestimated her, and he hated her for causing him to admit it. He felt stupid for allowing a slip of a girl that he had considered his inferior in every way to get the better of him. His stomach growled and he sighed again.
He glanced over at the food Weasley had left the evening before. He still hadn't touched it, but it was looking better and better every minute. Not that there was anything wrong with it; Weasley seemed to have purposely chosen appetizing foods that would make it difficult for him to resist. His eyes narrowed as he looked away. He wished he could block out his thoughts, but there was nothing else to do except think. Weasley also seemed to have chosen appetizing clothing that was difficult to resist, as well. Good Lord, he thought with disgust. That was all he needed, to suddenly find Virginia Weasley irresistible! Despite his self-disgust, he clearly remembered everything she'd worn since she'd locked him up. She'd been wearing the creamy turtleneck yesterday morning, and being damp, it had perfectly outlined her slim, supple shape. When she had returned at midday, she had changed into a sapphire blue jumper. Draco would have thought she should avoid blues with her colouring, but it had looked delicious on her. He had been angry that her appearance was distracting him, so he provoked a fight. She'd left quickly, taking his lunch with her, but had returned once more, in the evening. She was still wearing the jumper, but had pulled her hair back in a matching ribbon. Only one or two wispy curls were able to escape to tease her temples. She looked even more luscious than before, but the ribbon reminded him of the one that had been in his pocket.
What the hell had happened to it, he'd wondered. She must have found it. He couldn't help wondering what she'd made of it. She hadn't mentioned it, though, so maybe she hadn't recognized it. But with his luck, she would probably think he'd taken it because he liked her! Well, he would be happy to correct that particular misconception immediately. Regardless of how delicious she might look, there was no way he felt anything but distain, disgust and ridicule for Weasley or any of her family.
Draco's stomach growled again, interrupting his thoughts. He glanced at the food again before looking away. She always brought pumpkin juice with his meals, but he was getting heartily sick of pumpkin juice. It was all he'd had since Friday morning. He'd never liked it above half, but now he detested it. Last night, however, she had brought grilled chops, applesauce, and buttered rolls. When she'd entered, the steam was still rising from the grilled chops and the butter on the rolls was melting. It was mouthwatering. And it showed that she was deliberately trying to entice him into eating. She kept bleating about him dying of malnutrition, and her having to dispose of the body, so he knew she was purposely tempting him. He didn't want to eat what she brought, though. To do so would be to admit that he was in her power. At least that was what he'd told himself Friday and Saturday. Today, however, even the hard rolls and cold chops looked good. To get his mind off his stomach, he thought over what had happened last night. Weasley had left abruptly again, but only after she'd stayed for some time.
Draco snorted to himself. Yes, she'd stayed for some time, and forced him to listen to her ridiculous prattle. When she wasn't whining about him eating, she was talking a lot of crap about how wizards and Muggles should get along, about how being pureblooded wasn't really that special, and some other things. And some of the things Weasley had said had bothered him a lot. So, of course, they had fought. Draco closed his eyes, remembering.
Weasley had come in, carefully, as always, but not nearly as cautiously as on the first few visits. She was carrying a tray this time, along with her book bag. He'd wondered briefly how she got past Filch and his cat so often. Then Draco had noticed the hair ribbon. It looked as though she had purposely pulled out the wayward curls so they would dangle temptingly around her face. He doubted it, though. She just didn't seem the type. He especially didn't think she would worry about her appearance for him. Weasley set her tray down and turned to him with a small smile.
"Hungry?" she'd asked.
Draco's mouth was watering at the aroma of freshly grilled chops, but he moved away from the bars to lean against the back wall of the cell. To get his mind off food, he decided to try to fluster her again. Perhaps he could provoke her into coming nearer again. He was sure her wand was in the pocket of her robe. He might just be able to grab her long enough to get hold of her wand. At least it would pass the time.
With just the smallest curl to his lip he drawled, "I told you, Weasley, I'm not hungry for food. But if you want to come over here…" He let the sentence hang as his eyes moved slowly from her face down to her toes and back again.
This time, however, she didn't take the bait. She merely clicked her tongue and shook her head at him.
"If you want to starve yourself, I guess that's your business," she said with a small laugh. "But I think it's awfully unfair of you to expect me to dispose of your body when you fade away. Lord knows you're skinny enough, already." This was said in a slightly strangled voice.
He looked curiously at her, noting the way her eyes darted quickly away from his. But then she moved back to the opposite wall and sat on the floor, curling her legs under her. Her robe fell open to reveal the flattering jumper and a luscious expanse of long, shapely legs in black tights. His eyes rested on her legs, then wandered up to the hem of her skirt. He let his eyes travel up from there, resting on the snug jumper. He really hadn't realized she was so attractive. He was used to thinking of her as an annoying little girl, sometimes maddeningly annoying, but still a little girl. He was seeing that she had grown up. His gaze finally moved up to her face and the bright curls pulled back in the ribbon. Her hair was always clean and shining. She looked as fresh as spring, he thought with a large dose of revulsion at the sentimental sound of it. By contrast, he felt filthy in the borrowed tee shirt, the same trousers he'd worn for the last few days, and unbrushed teeth. That she seemed so calm in the face of his discomfort infuriated him. Suddenly, her shoulders stiffened. She must have felt his scrutiny, he thought. She seemed to be blushing slightly, but it might have been the firelight making it appear that way.
She didn't look at him, though. Instead, she took the bag from her shoulder, pulled out a book and started reading! Reading! While he was locked up, smelly, hungry, and unable to comfortably use the bathroom, the little wench was studying! It was enough to make him want to throttle her all over again. He might just as well not have been there! He looked around for something to throw at her, but there was only the chamber pot, his thin blanket, or the tray of food. He wasn't ready to hurl his own body waste at ANYONE quite yet, especially not the only person who knew he was here. And, even though he didn't plan to eat it, he wasn't about to toss the food away, either. He eyed the blanket with dissatisfaction. THAT would not go very far to get her attention.
He decided he'd just have to yell at her, or something, when she looked up. He was surprised (and that seemed to be a constant state of mind for him lately; she was always surprising him, it seemed) at the expression on her face. It was one of earnest entreaty. He frowned, wondering what could be on her mind to make her look at him that way. He didn't have to wait long.
"Tell me something, Malfoy," she said quietly, her eyes never leaving his. "What makes someone like you think he's so much better than anyone else? What special gifts do you possess that could possibly account for your arrogance? There must be something that so inflated your ego that you think you can treat people the way you do."
Draco opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find any words at the moment. Like her stupefying him, forging his writing, dousing him with water, and healing his wound so efficiently, her questions were a complete shock. His feeling of superiority was so ingrained in him that he never questioned it, himself, and certainly couldn't imagine a nobody like Weasley doing so. Couldn't she sense it, just from looking at him? Wasn't it evident to her? With another uncomfortable shock, he realized that it obviously was not. Again, he tried to form an answer, but now that he had to put the matter into words, he found he couldn't. He closed his mouth, realizing he looked like a fool, gaping that way.
Weasley watched him expectantly, waiting for an answer. She looked disappointed when he didn't reply, and lowered her eyes. "I know I can't MAKE you answer," she said in a small voice. "But if you could explain it to me, maybe I could understand what makes you such a hateful monster. And maybe I could understand what would make you persecute someone who is obviously no match for you. And, in time, I might even understand why someone twice my size and strength would stoop to trying to beat me up when I'd done nothing to him!"
She rose then and actually came closer. Not close enough to touch, but closer than she'd previously come on purpose before.
"And while you're at it, Malfoy," she continued, her soft voice growing hard, "tell me why having pure blood makes you special? There are plenty of pureblooded Squibbs around. And there are plenty of fabulous wizards and witches whose parents were Muggles. What makes you better than them?"
He told himself to laugh at her, to ignore the angry confusion in her voice. Then he unfolded his arms and moved to the bars again. Wrapping both hands around the bars, he gave her a hard look. She sounded confused and hurt, but it was just a ploy. She was the one confusing him. He hated her, just as he hated her brothers and family, just as he hated all stupid, weak Muggle lovers. The Muggles and Mudbloods were infecting the wizarding community; their influence was everywhere! But this tiny, silly girl was making him wonder at his own feelings and actions. Goaded by anger and bewilderment, he finally answered.
"I don't have to explain why I'm better, little weasel. I just know I am. If your family wasn't a filthy pack of poor, pathetic Muggle lovers, you'd know it, too.
Even as he spoke, Draco wished he could take the words back. He wasn't speaking to Ron, who had Potter and Granger to stand up for him. He was speaking to Ginny, the littlest weasel, who didn't even have her tall friend with her. His stomach churned as he watched her lower her eyes. Hell, he thought, she was going to start crying! But she only looked down for a minute. Then she raised her head and looked sadly at him.
"Yes, we're poor," she said finally. "And maybe we are a bit pathetic. If it's pathetic to care for other people, to not take advantage of others' weaknesses, then we're pathetic. And we do like the nice Muggles we've met, like Hermione's parents. But we're also pretty happy."
Draco started to make a disgusted comment, but Weasley interrupted him.
"I don't know why you hate Muggles so much, or why you think being pureblooded is so important. Because if you follow your family tree back far enough, you'll find Muggles, you know. We all started somewhere. Just remember one thing, Malfoy," she added with a look of pity. "You have pureblood, Muggle hating parents. Are you happy?"
She turned her back on him before he answered. "You're a Malfoy, exactly like your father, and you're rich. You have hundreds of robes, you said months ago, but you don't even have one real friend. There isn't anyone who cares what happens to you. I think that's terribly sad."
She sat again, then pulled her book out, preparing to read.
Draco was stunned. She felt sorry for him?! She wore shabby robes, most of her books were second hand, and her parents barely had two sickles to rub together. But she had the nerve to pity him! Laugh, his brain ordered him again. Laugh and let her see that her words have no effect on you. But he couldn't. She'd meant what she'd said. She was poor, but happy. She was proud of her family, and didn't apologize for them. And she did have friends.
But this was unbelievable. He couldn't just stand here with his mouth hanging open. He gave her his most superior sneer and drawled, "Of course I'm happy, little weasel. I can have anything I want, either by buying it or conjuring it. Do you think I care about friends? Do you think I care about what other people think? What gives you the right to question me?"
Weasley was up off the floor in a second and at the very limit of his reach. He didn't reach, though. He was watching her face, fascinated. Her eyes were flashing and her mouth curled into a sneer worthy of—well—a Malfoy!
"You want to know what gives me the right? I'll show you!"
Before Draco's astonished gaze, she flung her robe off and hauled the jumper over her head. She was wearing a plain, white school blouse underneath. She unbuttoned the top two buttons and pulled the collar apart. At the base of her neck, normally hidden by her clothing, were two purple and black marks. They looked like smudges of ash, but Draco knew immediately what they were. They were the marks of his thumbs from when he'd tried to choke her. He felt the blood leave his face, and his hands gripped the bars even more tightly. He had no idea he'd gripped her neck hard enough to leave bruises.
He finally pried one hand from the bars and held it toward her. He grimaced when she flinched and backed up a few steps.
"Look, Weasley, I—," he began, but she cut him off.
"Save it, Malfoy. I don't know why I bothered. 'Like father, like son', isn't that the way it goes?"
Weasley angrily buttoned her blouse again and snatched the robe and jumper up from the floor, pacing as she continued to speak.
"Your father was a murderous, lying bastard. He was a hypocrite and a cheat. You must be proud! You're just the same."
Now there were tears in her eyes. Draco had been unable to do or say anything. This passionate outburst was the last thing he'd expected. Then her words hit him. 'Like father, like son'. 'Murderous bastard', 'hypocrite'. Who the hell did she think she was talking to?
"What are you talking about, Weasley?" he demanded, his voice hissing through his clenched jaw. "What do you know about my father?"
She suddenly slapped a hand over her mouth, looking at him with wide, guilty eyes.
"You called my father a murdering bastard and a liar, Weasley," Draco snarled. "You said something like that before. You can't say things like that and leave it hanging. What the hell do you think you know?"
Weasley lowered her hand slowly and moved back to the opposite wall, absently putting her jumper back on. When she finished, she turned to him, looking resolute.
"I wasn't—I didn't mean to say anything at all," she said finally. "But since I started, I might as well finish."
The look on her face was so grave that Draco braced himself. He knew there were things about his father that he frankly didn't want to know or believe, and he had a feeling what the little weasel was about to say was one of those things. But he was completely unprepared for what she did tell him. Absolute crap about his father wanting to marry her mother! Even for political reasons, he couldn't believe it. And that skinny, ineffectual weakling, Arthur Weasley, rescuing Molly Weasley and outsmarting Lucius Malfoy? There was just no way. But something was gnawing at the back of his mind; some tiny, irritating little voice was saying that he'd heard others, his father's supposed friends, saying something like this before. Laughing behind their hands about it, but quietly, so Lucius wouldn't hear them.
No, he wouldn't believe it. The little weasel was lying. She was trying to confuse him. He now saw that this was her revenge. She had him captive, and since he couldn't shut her up, she would just sit here and fabricate outrageous stories that he couldn't disprove. That had to be it.
Well, Draco thought, not if he could help it. He looked right into Weasley's eyes and sneered again. "I've seen your mother, Weasley. Can you look at her, then look at my mother and honestly tell me you think my father ever looked twice at the fat cow?"
That had done it. Weasley gave him a shocked, hurt look, which she covered immediately. Then she put her robe back on, picked up her book and bag, and left the chamber without another word.
Draco finally opened his eyes. He wanted to forget what the stupid little weasel had said, but found it impossible. During the long hours of the evening, and through last night, he'd gone over her words again and again. Draco realized now that thinking she would make up stories to try to discredit his parents was ludicrous. He knew she didn't lie, and if there was a single vindictive bone in her body, he would be much more miserable than he was now. But her story seemed so impossible. If, however, what she said were true, it would explain his father's obsessive hatred of the Weasleys. They certainly weren't the only pureblood wizarding family that rubbed elbows with Mudbloods. And Arthur Weasley wasn't the only wizard that tried to protect Muggles from malicious magic. Draco could even imagine that if his woman were threatened, Arthur Weasley might be someone to be reckoned with. Maybe. But he still couldn't imagine his father wooing and courting the woman he knew as Molly Weasley. Draco tried to imagine the woman as she would have been several years ago, but found that he couldn't.
Even if he could have, though, he still couldn't imagine his father with a fiery haired, short, stout matron like Weasley's mother. Not when he compared her to his own mother. Unless it was as Weasley had said. He could imagine his father doing just about anything to win support for Voldemort, creepy as he was, even if it meant murdering or marrying the slightly common daughter of an equally common, but very prominent wizarding family.
Draco dropped his head into his hands. He was tired of thinking. He was tired of the boredom. And he was so tired of being locked in this stupid cell. If what Weasley had told him last night were true, though, he didn't blame her. She probably thought he was capable of murder, at this point. Draco tried to reconcile kidnapping, threatened rape and brutalization with the man he knew as his father. He remembered the beatings he had received as a child, and could well believe that part. But the other, threatening to rape Weasley's mother? And to use a Muggle weapon? He rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of it. He wished he could confront his father with this; ask him if it were true.
"Shit!" he muttered, finally lying back to try to get to sleep. It was Christmas morning and he didn't expect the little weasel to hurry over presents and a lavish breakfast, just to visit with him. Especially after he'd insulted her mother the night before. He was, therefore, amazed when she entered the chamber a few minutes later.
Sunday morning, Christmas morning. Draco stared moodily at the low fire in the grate and sighed. Happy Christmas, you stupid bastard, he sneered at himself. When he'd finally come to on Friday evening, he'd been woozy and disoriented. The stupefy spell had been a powerful one. Either Weasley was a much stronger witch than he'd imagined, or she'd been on the verge of panic when she'd hexed him. It was possible that she was a bit of both. Not that it mattered. She had somehow gotten him into this cell, wherever it was, and had locked him up. After getting his bearings, he'd gone over every inch of the cell, looking for a way out. The cell was solidly made, however. There were no loose bars, no hidden passages through the stone walls, and, without his wand, no way to use magic to get out.
He could not believe that Weasley had actually locked him up! How dare she? It was humiliating! First she'd acted like he didn't even exist. Then she had nearly unmanned him with her dirty fighting tricks. Finally, she'd unexpectedly hexed him when he'd—well—not expected it. She was just full of surprised, lately. He hated to admit that he had completely underestimated her, and he hated her for causing him to admit it. He felt stupid for allowing a slip of a girl that he had considered his inferior in every way to get the better of him. His stomach growled and he sighed again.
He glanced over at the food Weasley had left the evening before. He still hadn't touched it, but it was looking better and better every minute. Not that there was anything wrong with it; Weasley seemed to have purposely chosen appetizing foods that would make it difficult for him to resist. His eyes narrowed as he looked away. He wished he could block out his thoughts, but there was nothing else to do except think. Weasley also seemed to have chosen appetizing clothing that was difficult to resist, as well. Good Lord, he thought with disgust. That was all he needed, to suddenly find Virginia Weasley irresistible! Despite his self-disgust, he clearly remembered everything she'd worn since she'd locked him up. She'd been wearing the creamy turtleneck yesterday morning, and being damp, it had perfectly outlined her slim, supple shape. When she had returned at midday, she had changed into a sapphire blue jumper. Draco would have thought she should avoid blues with her colouring, but it had looked delicious on her. He had been angry that her appearance was distracting him, so he provoked a fight. She'd left quickly, taking his lunch with her, but had returned once more, in the evening. She was still wearing the jumper, but had pulled her hair back in a matching ribbon. Only one or two wispy curls were able to escape to tease her temples. She looked even more luscious than before, but the ribbon reminded him of the one that had been in his pocket.
What the hell had happened to it, he'd wondered. She must have found it. He couldn't help wondering what she'd made of it. She hadn't mentioned it, though, so maybe she hadn't recognized it. But with his luck, she would probably think he'd taken it because he liked her! Well, he would be happy to correct that particular misconception immediately. Regardless of how delicious she might look, there was no way he felt anything but distain, disgust and ridicule for Weasley or any of her family.
Draco's stomach growled again, interrupting his thoughts. He glanced at the food again before looking away. She always brought pumpkin juice with his meals, but he was getting heartily sick of pumpkin juice. It was all he'd had since Friday morning. He'd never liked it above half, but now he detested it. Last night, however, she had brought grilled chops, applesauce, and buttered rolls. When she'd entered, the steam was still rising from the grilled chops and the butter on the rolls was melting. It was mouthwatering. And it showed that she was deliberately trying to entice him into eating. She kept bleating about him dying of malnutrition, and her having to dispose of the body, so he knew she was purposely tempting him. He didn't want to eat what she brought, though. To do so would be to admit that he was in her power. At least that was what he'd told himself Friday and Saturday. Today, however, even the hard rolls and cold chops looked good. To get his mind off his stomach, he thought over what had happened last night. Weasley had left abruptly again, but only after she'd stayed for some time.
Draco snorted to himself. Yes, she'd stayed for some time, and forced him to listen to her ridiculous prattle. When she wasn't whining about him eating, she was talking a lot of crap about how wizards and Muggles should get along, about how being pureblooded wasn't really that special, and some other things. And some of the things Weasley had said had bothered him a lot. So, of course, they had fought. Draco closed his eyes, remembering.
Weasley had come in, carefully, as always, but not nearly as cautiously as on the first few visits. She was carrying a tray this time, along with her book bag. He'd wondered briefly how she got past Filch and his cat so often. Then Draco had noticed the hair ribbon. It looked as though she had purposely pulled out the wayward curls so they would dangle temptingly around her face. He doubted it, though. She just didn't seem the type. He especially didn't think she would worry about her appearance for him. Weasley set her tray down and turned to him with a small smile.
"Hungry?" she'd asked.
Draco's mouth was watering at the aroma of freshly grilled chops, but he moved away from the bars to lean against the back wall of the cell. To get his mind off food, he decided to try to fluster her again. Perhaps he could provoke her into coming nearer again. He was sure her wand was in the pocket of her robe. He might just be able to grab her long enough to get hold of her wand. At least it would pass the time.
With just the smallest curl to his lip he drawled, "I told you, Weasley, I'm not hungry for food. But if you want to come over here…" He let the sentence hang as his eyes moved slowly from her face down to her toes and back again.
This time, however, she didn't take the bait. She merely clicked her tongue and shook her head at him.
"If you want to starve yourself, I guess that's your business," she said with a small laugh. "But I think it's awfully unfair of you to expect me to dispose of your body when you fade away. Lord knows you're skinny enough, already." This was said in a slightly strangled voice.
He looked curiously at her, noting the way her eyes darted quickly away from his. But then she moved back to the opposite wall and sat on the floor, curling her legs under her. Her robe fell open to reveal the flattering jumper and a luscious expanse of long, shapely legs in black tights. His eyes rested on her legs, then wandered up to the hem of her skirt. He let his eyes travel up from there, resting on the snug jumper. He really hadn't realized she was so attractive. He was used to thinking of her as an annoying little girl, sometimes maddeningly annoying, but still a little girl. He was seeing that she had grown up. His gaze finally moved up to her face and the bright curls pulled back in the ribbon. Her hair was always clean and shining. She looked as fresh as spring, he thought with a large dose of revulsion at the sentimental sound of it. By contrast, he felt filthy in the borrowed tee shirt, the same trousers he'd worn for the last few days, and unbrushed teeth. That she seemed so calm in the face of his discomfort infuriated him. Suddenly, her shoulders stiffened. She must have felt his scrutiny, he thought. She seemed to be blushing slightly, but it might have been the firelight making it appear that way.
She didn't look at him, though. Instead, she took the bag from her shoulder, pulled out a book and started reading! Reading! While he was locked up, smelly, hungry, and unable to comfortably use the bathroom, the little wench was studying! It was enough to make him want to throttle her all over again. He might just as well not have been there! He looked around for something to throw at her, but there was only the chamber pot, his thin blanket, or the tray of food. He wasn't ready to hurl his own body waste at ANYONE quite yet, especially not the only person who knew he was here. And, even though he didn't plan to eat it, he wasn't about to toss the food away, either. He eyed the blanket with dissatisfaction. THAT would not go very far to get her attention.
He decided he'd just have to yell at her, or something, when she looked up. He was surprised (and that seemed to be a constant state of mind for him lately; she was always surprising him, it seemed) at the expression on her face. It was one of earnest entreaty. He frowned, wondering what could be on her mind to make her look at him that way. He didn't have to wait long.
"Tell me something, Malfoy," she said quietly, her eyes never leaving his. "What makes someone like you think he's so much better than anyone else? What special gifts do you possess that could possibly account for your arrogance? There must be something that so inflated your ego that you think you can treat people the way you do."
Draco opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find any words at the moment. Like her stupefying him, forging his writing, dousing him with water, and healing his wound so efficiently, her questions were a complete shock. His feeling of superiority was so ingrained in him that he never questioned it, himself, and certainly couldn't imagine a nobody like Weasley doing so. Couldn't she sense it, just from looking at him? Wasn't it evident to her? With another uncomfortable shock, he realized that it obviously was not. Again, he tried to form an answer, but now that he had to put the matter into words, he found he couldn't. He closed his mouth, realizing he looked like a fool, gaping that way.
Weasley watched him expectantly, waiting for an answer. She looked disappointed when he didn't reply, and lowered her eyes. "I know I can't MAKE you answer," she said in a small voice. "But if you could explain it to me, maybe I could understand what makes you such a hateful monster. And maybe I could understand what would make you persecute someone who is obviously no match for you. And, in time, I might even understand why someone twice my size and strength would stoop to trying to beat me up when I'd done nothing to him!"
She rose then and actually came closer. Not close enough to touch, but closer than she'd previously come on purpose before.
"And while you're at it, Malfoy," she continued, her soft voice growing hard, "tell me why having pure blood makes you special? There are plenty of pureblooded Squibbs around. And there are plenty of fabulous wizards and witches whose parents were Muggles. What makes you better than them?"
He told himself to laugh at her, to ignore the angry confusion in her voice. Then he unfolded his arms and moved to the bars again. Wrapping both hands around the bars, he gave her a hard look. She sounded confused and hurt, but it was just a ploy. She was the one confusing him. He hated her, just as he hated her brothers and family, just as he hated all stupid, weak Muggle lovers. The Muggles and Mudbloods were infecting the wizarding community; their influence was everywhere! But this tiny, silly girl was making him wonder at his own feelings and actions. Goaded by anger and bewilderment, he finally answered.
"I don't have to explain why I'm better, little weasel. I just know I am. If your family wasn't a filthy pack of poor, pathetic Muggle lovers, you'd know it, too.
Even as he spoke, Draco wished he could take the words back. He wasn't speaking to Ron, who had Potter and Granger to stand up for him. He was speaking to Ginny, the littlest weasel, who didn't even have her tall friend with her. His stomach churned as he watched her lower her eyes. Hell, he thought, she was going to start crying! But she only looked down for a minute. Then she raised her head and looked sadly at him.
"Yes, we're poor," she said finally. "And maybe we are a bit pathetic. If it's pathetic to care for other people, to not take advantage of others' weaknesses, then we're pathetic. And we do like the nice Muggles we've met, like Hermione's parents. But we're also pretty happy."
Draco started to make a disgusted comment, but Weasley interrupted him.
"I don't know why you hate Muggles so much, or why you think being pureblooded is so important. Because if you follow your family tree back far enough, you'll find Muggles, you know. We all started somewhere. Just remember one thing, Malfoy," she added with a look of pity. "You have pureblood, Muggle hating parents. Are you happy?"
She turned her back on him before he answered. "You're a Malfoy, exactly like your father, and you're rich. You have hundreds of robes, you said months ago, but you don't even have one real friend. There isn't anyone who cares what happens to you. I think that's terribly sad."
She sat again, then pulled her book out, preparing to read.
Draco was stunned. She felt sorry for him?! She wore shabby robes, most of her books were second hand, and her parents barely had two sickles to rub together. But she had the nerve to pity him! Laugh, his brain ordered him again. Laugh and let her see that her words have no effect on you. But he couldn't. She'd meant what she'd said. She was poor, but happy. She was proud of her family, and didn't apologize for them. And she did have friends.
But this was unbelievable. He couldn't just stand here with his mouth hanging open. He gave her his most superior sneer and drawled, "Of course I'm happy, little weasel. I can have anything I want, either by buying it or conjuring it. Do you think I care about friends? Do you think I care about what other people think? What gives you the right to question me?"
Weasley was up off the floor in a second and at the very limit of his reach. He didn't reach, though. He was watching her face, fascinated. Her eyes were flashing and her mouth curled into a sneer worthy of—well—a Malfoy!
"You want to know what gives me the right? I'll show you!"
Before Draco's astonished gaze, she flung her robe off and hauled the jumper over her head. She was wearing a plain, white school blouse underneath. She unbuttoned the top two buttons and pulled the collar apart. At the base of her neck, normally hidden by her clothing, were two purple and black marks. They looked like smudges of ash, but Draco knew immediately what they were. They were the marks of his thumbs from when he'd tried to choke her. He felt the blood leave his face, and his hands gripped the bars even more tightly. He had no idea he'd gripped her neck hard enough to leave bruises.
He finally pried one hand from the bars and held it toward her. He grimaced when she flinched and backed up a few steps.
"Look, Weasley, I—," he began, but she cut him off.
"Save it, Malfoy. I don't know why I bothered. 'Like father, like son', isn't that the way it goes?"
Weasley angrily buttoned her blouse again and snatched the robe and jumper up from the floor, pacing as she continued to speak.
"Your father was a murderous, lying bastard. He was a hypocrite and a cheat. You must be proud! You're just the same."
Now there were tears in her eyes. Draco had been unable to do or say anything. This passionate outburst was the last thing he'd expected. Then her words hit him. 'Like father, like son'. 'Murderous bastard', 'hypocrite'. Who the hell did she think she was talking to?
"What are you talking about, Weasley?" he demanded, his voice hissing through his clenched jaw. "What do you know about my father?"
She suddenly slapped a hand over her mouth, looking at him with wide, guilty eyes.
"You called my father a murdering bastard and a liar, Weasley," Draco snarled. "You said something like that before. You can't say things like that and leave it hanging. What the hell do you think you know?"
Weasley lowered her hand slowly and moved back to the opposite wall, absently putting her jumper back on. When she finished, she turned to him, looking resolute.
"I wasn't—I didn't mean to say anything at all," she said finally. "But since I started, I might as well finish."
The look on her face was so grave that Draco braced himself. He knew there were things about his father that he frankly didn't want to know or believe, and he had a feeling what the little weasel was about to say was one of those things. But he was completely unprepared for what she did tell him. Absolute crap about his father wanting to marry her mother! Even for political reasons, he couldn't believe it. And that skinny, ineffectual weakling, Arthur Weasley, rescuing Molly Weasley and outsmarting Lucius Malfoy? There was just no way. But something was gnawing at the back of his mind; some tiny, irritating little voice was saying that he'd heard others, his father's supposed friends, saying something like this before. Laughing behind their hands about it, but quietly, so Lucius wouldn't hear them.
No, he wouldn't believe it. The little weasel was lying. She was trying to confuse him. He now saw that this was her revenge. She had him captive, and since he couldn't shut her up, she would just sit here and fabricate outrageous stories that he couldn't disprove. That had to be it.
Well, Draco thought, not if he could help it. He looked right into Weasley's eyes and sneered again. "I've seen your mother, Weasley. Can you look at her, then look at my mother and honestly tell me you think my father ever looked twice at the fat cow?"
That had done it. Weasley gave him a shocked, hurt look, which she covered immediately. Then she put her robe back on, picked up her book and bag, and left the chamber without another word.
Draco finally opened his eyes. He wanted to forget what the stupid little weasel had said, but found it impossible. During the long hours of the evening, and through last night, he'd gone over her words again and again. Draco realized now that thinking she would make up stories to try to discredit his parents was ludicrous. He knew she didn't lie, and if there was a single vindictive bone in her body, he would be much more miserable than he was now. But her story seemed so impossible. If, however, what she said were true, it would explain his father's obsessive hatred of the Weasleys. They certainly weren't the only pureblood wizarding family that rubbed elbows with Mudbloods. And Arthur Weasley wasn't the only wizard that tried to protect Muggles from malicious magic. Draco could even imagine that if his woman were threatened, Arthur Weasley might be someone to be reckoned with. Maybe. But he still couldn't imagine his father wooing and courting the woman he knew as Molly Weasley. Draco tried to imagine the woman as she would have been several years ago, but found that he couldn't.
Even if he could have, though, he still couldn't imagine his father with a fiery haired, short, stout matron like Weasley's mother. Not when he compared her to his own mother. Unless it was as Weasley had said. He could imagine his father doing just about anything to win support for Voldemort, creepy as he was, even if it meant murdering or marrying the slightly common daughter of an equally common, but very prominent wizarding family.
Draco dropped his head into his hands. He was tired of thinking. He was tired of the boredom. And he was so tired of being locked in this stupid cell. If what Weasley had told him last night were true, though, he didn't blame her. She probably thought he was capable of murder, at this point. Draco tried to reconcile kidnapping, threatened rape and brutalization with the man he knew as his father. He remembered the beatings he had received as a child, and could well believe that part. But the other, threatening to rape Weasley's mother? And to use a Muggle weapon? He rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of it. He wished he could confront his father with this; ask him if it were true.
"Shit!" he muttered, finally lying back to try to get to sleep. It was Christmas morning and he didn't expect the little weasel to hurry over presents and a lavish breakfast, just to visit with him. Especially after he'd insulted her mother the night before. He was, therefore, amazed when she entered the chamber a few minutes later.