Interlude
Draco's POV
My name is Draco Malfoy. I am the youngest in one of the longest pure-blood wizarding family lines ever recorded. I am the heir to the Malfoy fortune.
I am the son of Lucius Malfoy.
That statement sums up the point of my existence. It carries more weight than the previous statements plus more all rolled into one.
It is a title. It earns me fear and respect wherever I go.
Respect from the blind fools at the ministry, such as our esteemed Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge who believe that our family is simply an old, pure-blooded, rich family who donate some of our family fortune to excellent causes such a St. Mungos.
And Fear.
Fear from those who know what we really are. Those who know what extremes we have gone to to prevent our blood from becoming tainted with mud-blood. Those who know exactly what 'extra curricular activities' we have utilized to prevent our money from depleting over the years like those Muggle loving fools of the Weasley family did. Those who know that St. Mungos would hardly need any of the funds that we donate to it if it weren't full of people whose magical maladies were directly or indirectly elicited by our family.
Being the son of Lucius Malfoy, as well as all the perks, means that I have many obligations and responsibilities as heir to the Malfoy estate. If I fail in any of these I am severely punished. I don't mind though. It is molding me into a better person, a better Malfoy.
My father doesn't like to hurt me and he doesn't do it very often, and despite what some may say, I am not ill treated by him. He respects me and I respect him. He cares for me in a way that, whilst being loving and gentle, disciplines me and I respect him for that. Just as he respects me for admitting what I have done wrong and accepting my punishment like a man. Like a Malfoy.
Oh, I have a point, I promise you.
This is the reason that when my father asks me to do something like befriend Harry Potter at all costs, he means it. I tried.
Looking back, I guess that insulting his first real wizarding friend wasn't the best way to go about befriending him, and so I failed. I failed the first crucial task that father had ever given me, and it hurt.
It hurt more than the mild Cruciatus that I was placed under the next holidays. I knew that I had failed my father and that it would take a long time before he would ever trust me again.
It took five years for me to regain that trust.
Five miserable years and then what he asked me to do, made him repulsive in my eyes. My own father. The man I had loved and respected since long before I can remember. The first thing that I knew I could do right for him and I couldn't do it.
I couldn't become a Death Eater. The one reason that my father had married my mother was to produce an heir. That heir would be first in line for the succession of the Dark Lord. The only bloody reason that I walked on this earth was to do this one duty and I quite simply couldn't.
I had first had my doubts at the end of the Third task when they brought Diggory's body back. I had assumed that he had come off worst in a duel, but my father gleefully informed me that he hadn't had a clue what was happening. It was by a mere fluke that he had touched the port key at the same time as Potter. He had barely got his wand out before he was lying on the ground at Potter's feet. He hadn't known a thing.
This disgusted me. I didn't mind Muggles being killed, and even Mud-bloods if I was in a bad mood, but this was a fully grown, nearly completely trained pure-blooded wizard.
This planted a seed of doubt in my mind and from then on, whenever something to do with the Dark Lord or dark arts occurred, I always stopped to think of its implications before simply agreeing with my father.
Although my views on my family and destiny were changing, my feelings for Potter hadn't. I hated him with a passion. I had hated him since he had refused to shake my hand on the train the second time I met him. My hate was also fueled by my father.
For this reason I continued to torment him until the end of the school year. That, and the fact that exchanging insults with Potter had become like second nature to me. It had become a habit with us, it came to the point where I felt like something important had been left out of my day if we didn't have a fight. It came to the point where I was on 'autopilot' (what strange expressions Muggles use). The scowl automatically slipped on when I saw him and my mouth hurled insults at him whilst my mind could be engaged on a much more pleasing topic.
When we returned to school it was obvious that something was wrong with Potter. It wasn't immediately obvious to his friends but to me, who had spent many long hours studying his actions for my father and myself, it was plain.
Something was eating away at him. Admittedly, he had a smile on his lips much of the time, but it looked very stiff. As if he had schooled himself to keep it there. His eyes were sorrowful. That was in the rare flashes when his mask slipped. When his mask was up, his eyes were devoid of emotion. They were empty. Like a corpse. They gave me the shivers as I realised that they reminded me of the eyes of the people that I had met who had suffered the Dementors Kiss. (I had visited the area of St Mungos where they were kept for what my father referred to as a character building exercise).
Potter was scaring me. He was withdrawing inside himself. The barriers that he had raised around himself were growing higher and thicker every day. His 'friends' didn't seem to notice it though. They noticed the physical signs of growing thinner and the dark circles beneath his eyes but they hadn't been schooled in the psychological area as I had.
My father had thought it good to know how far you could bend a person before they snapped and if I was going to make a living by breaking people then I would definitely need to recognise the signs.
My father was also the reason that Potter laid dead for a month. Alright, I don't really think that I can blame it all on him, but if he had only taught me how to help people instead of just how to break them then maybe I could have done something instead of standing in the shadows helplessly. As it was, I had no idea how to help Potter before he sunk too low for anyone to reach him.
He was nearly there as it was. His friends had realised to late that there was a problem. I don't know what happened. He seemed to be getting better, then one day he turned up to breakfast after being missing for the whole previous day looking worse than I had ever seen him. I knew then, that he was almost completely lost. He had refused to let his friends in. He had told them to fuck off in front of the entire school.
I was scared for him. I still didn't like him, but my hate had diminished. Also, he was, apparently, the only hope that the wizarding world had against the Dark Lord which meant that he was my only hope of help as well.
So I tried to snap him out of it. I only succeeded in snapping him in half. My father would have been proud. How was I to know that his aunt had killed herself? How was I to know that it was guilt that rested upon his shoulders. The only thing I knew, when I saw the scars and slashes on his arms was that he was lost.
Then his stupid friends stand around talking after he ran out. Gee, I thought the Mud-blood was supposed to be brilliant. Then that fucker Snape held us up when we tried to chase him.
Dammit, but I felt responsible. I followed them to see if he was okay. I knew in the pit of my stomach that he wasn't. When I saw the back of Snape's body tense as he walked through the door and the tone he used when he told us to keep Granger outside I knew.
I tried to stop her but I couldn't. I followed her and the Weasel inside the room. I cannot explain what I felt at that time. The sickness, the anger, the sorrow and above all the guilt. I learnt the hard way, that day, how Potter felt, what it was that had broken him.
Granger had fainted and started coming around as the headmaster walked in. I knew that I had no right to be there but I wanted to help. Somehow I wanted to make up for what I had done. I lifted Hermione and carried her from the room, after looking sadly at Weasley who was retching in the corner. I couldn't look at Him again.
I vowed as I left the room that I would do anything and everything in my power to help Him.
Of course I was banking on him being alive.
Draco's POV
My name is Draco Malfoy. I am the youngest in one of the longest pure-blood wizarding family lines ever recorded. I am the heir to the Malfoy fortune.
I am the son of Lucius Malfoy.
That statement sums up the point of my existence. It carries more weight than the previous statements plus more all rolled into one.
It is a title. It earns me fear and respect wherever I go.
Respect from the blind fools at the ministry, such as our esteemed Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge who believe that our family is simply an old, pure-blooded, rich family who donate some of our family fortune to excellent causes such a St. Mungos.
And Fear.
Fear from those who know what we really are. Those who know what extremes we have gone to to prevent our blood from becoming tainted with mud-blood. Those who know exactly what 'extra curricular activities' we have utilized to prevent our money from depleting over the years like those Muggle loving fools of the Weasley family did. Those who know that St. Mungos would hardly need any of the funds that we donate to it if it weren't full of people whose magical maladies were directly or indirectly elicited by our family.
Being the son of Lucius Malfoy, as well as all the perks, means that I have many obligations and responsibilities as heir to the Malfoy estate. If I fail in any of these I am severely punished. I don't mind though. It is molding me into a better person, a better Malfoy.
My father doesn't like to hurt me and he doesn't do it very often, and despite what some may say, I am not ill treated by him. He respects me and I respect him. He cares for me in a way that, whilst being loving and gentle, disciplines me and I respect him for that. Just as he respects me for admitting what I have done wrong and accepting my punishment like a man. Like a Malfoy.
Oh, I have a point, I promise you.
This is the reason that when my father asks me to do something like befriend Harry Potter at all costs, he means it. I tried.
Looking back, I guess that insulting his first real wizarding friend wasn't the best way to go about befriending him, and so I failed. I failed the first crucial task that father had ever given me, and it hurt.
It hurt more than the mild Cruciatus that I was placed under the next holidays. I knew that I had failed my father and that it would take a long time before he would ever trust me again.
It took five years for me to regain that trust.
Five miserable years and then what he asked me to do, made him repulsive in my eyes. My own father. The man I had loved and respected since long before I can remember. The first thing that I knew I could do right for him and I couldn't do it.
I couldn't become a Death Eater. The one reason that my father had married my mother was to produce an heir. That heir would be first in line for the succession of the Dark Lord. The only bloody reason that I walked on this earth was to do this one duty and I quite simply couldn't.
I had first had my doubts at the end of the Third task when they brought Diggory's body back. I had assumed that he had come off worst in a duel, but my father gleefully informed me that he hadn't had a clue what was happening. It was by a mere fluke that he had touched the port key at the same time as Potter. He had barely got his wand out before he was lying on the ground at Potter's feet. He hadn't known a thing.
This disgusted me. I didn't mind Muggles being killed, and even Mud-bloods if I was in a bad mood, but this was a fully grown, nearly completely trained pure-blooded wizard.
This planted a seed of doubt in my mind and from then on, whenever something to do with the Dark Lord or dark arts occurred, I always stopped to think of its implications before simply agreeing with my father.
Although my views on my family and destiny were changing, my feelings for Potter hadn't. I hated him with a passion. I had hated him since he had refused to shake my hand on the train the second time I met him. My hate was also fueled by my father.
For this reason I continued to torment him until the end of the school year. That, and the fact that exchanging insults with Potter had become like second nature to me. It had become a habit with us, it came to the point where I felt like something important had been left out of my day if we didn't have a fight. It came to the point where I was on 'autopilot' (what strange expressions Muggles use). The scowl automatically slipped on when I saw him and my mouth hurled insults at him whilst my mind could be engaged on a much more pleasing topic.
When we returned to school it was obvious that something was wrong with Potter. It wasn't immediately obvious to his friends but to me, who had spent many long hours studying his actions for my father and myself, it was plain.
Something was eating away at him. Admittedly, he had a smile on his lips much of the time, but it looked very stiff. As if he had schooled himself to keep it there. His eyes were sorrowful. That was in the rare flashes when his mask slipped. When his mask was up, his eyes were devoid of emotion. They were empty. Like a corpse. They gave me the shivers as I realised that they reminded me of the eyes of the people that I had met who had suffered the Dementors Kiss. (I had visited the area of St Mungos where they were kept for what my father referred to as a character building exercise).
Potter was scaring me. He was withdrawing inside himself. The barriers that he had raised around himself were growing higher and thicker every day. His 'friends' didn't seem to notice it though. They noticed the physical signs of growing thinner and the dark circles beneath his eyes but they hadn't been schooled in the psychological area as I had.
My father had thought it good to know how far you could bend a person before they snapped and if I was going to make a living by breaking people then I would definitely need to recognise the signs.
My father was also the reason that Potter laid dead for a month. Alright, I don't really think that I can blame it all on him, but if he had only taught me how to help people instead of just how to break them then maybe I could have done something instead of standing in the shadows helplessly. As it was, I had no idea how to help Potter before he sunk too low for anyone to reach him.
He was nearly there as it was. His friends had realised to late that there was a problem. I don't know what happened. He seemed to be getting better, then one day he turned up to breakfast after being missing for the whole previous day looking worse than I had ever seen him. I knew then, that he was almost completely lost. He had refused to let his friends in. He had told them to fuck off in front of the entire school.
I was scared for him. I still didn't like him, but my hate had diminished. Also, he was, apparently, the only hope that the wizarding world had against the Dark Lord which meant that he was my only hope of help as well.
So I tried to snap him out of it. I only succeeded in snapping him in half. My father would have been proud. How was I to know that his aunt had killed herself? How was I to know that it was guilt that rested upon his shoulders. The only thing I knew, when I saw the scars and slashes on his arms was that he was lost.
Then his stupid friends stand around talking after he ran out. Gee, I thought the Mud-blood was supposed to be brilliant. Then that fucker Snape held us up when we tried to chase him.
Dammit, but I felt responsible. I followed them to see if he was okay. I knew in the pit of my stomach that he wasn't. When I saw the back of Snape's body tense as he walked through the door and the tone he used when he told us to keep Granger outside I knew.
I tried to stop her but I couldn't. I followed her and the Weasel inside the room. I cannot explain what I felt at that time. The sickness, the anger, the sorrow and above all the guilt. I learnt the hard way, that day, how Potter felt, what it was that had broken him.
Granger had fainted and started coming around as the headmaster walked in. I knew that I had no right to be there but I wanted to help. Somehow I wanted to make up for what I had done. I lifted Hermione and carried her from the room, after looking sadly at Weasley who was retching in the corner. I couldn't look at Him again.
I vowed as I left the room that I would do anything and everything in my power to help Him.
Of course I was banking on him being alive.