OK, This Is Non-Slash!!! Even though I love and worship slash, this is a
little break for those searching for something...well, something that
aforementioned searching people are looking for, the ones that don't like
slash.
Now, as for me.... As of writing this, I have exactly two months and two days left in Japan, so don't expect loads of updates. I have a pasucon at home, but it is evil tempered and does not agree with modern contrivances like the internet. So all I can do is type. Thank Merlin for my best friend here in Japan, Midori, who back in January gave me three disks filled with Draco, Lucius, and Snape screencaps, and thank Merlin there was space left on one of them to store my fanfics. I managed to find a nice little internet café where they only charge you \400 for an hour, and I'll be able to go there once a week. ONCE a WEEK!! ARGH!!
READ ME: This fic is basically a retelling of Harry Potter, told from Draco's point of view. It's supposed to be Draco talking to an audience, so read it as if you're listening to someone tell a story...oh, and there's a little Weasley-bashing, for even though I adore the Weasleys (especially Percy - I think he's so neglected!!), I don't think Draco quite does... and also, the opening kind of bashes those who write in diaries. Which, um, includes me - I've got about 26 volumes accumulated from over the past two- and-a-half years, so don't think that I hate people who right in diaries, 'cause I'm one of them.
Secondly, I am pro-Slytherin. I don't go a day without wearing my Slytherin sweater (thank God for washing machines and maids who do you're laundry while you're at school), and I made my mother mail me my Draco figurine from the US so that he might act as my muse. No, I don't think using Neville for hexing practice is nice, but I really feel that the Slytherins are quite misunderstood.
More at the end....
~
I don't keep a diary. Diaries are for silly little redheaded twits who, in their starvation of both food and affection, have fallen deep into the devious plots and manipulative traps of the Malfoy family.
I don't keep a journal either. For those who don't understand the difference between either method of recording, perhaps if I enlighten you with my own opinion, you'll begin to recognize the true meaning of the words.
Journals are for those too cowardly to admit that they do indeed keep a diary. Writers of these so-called "journals", overwhelmed by the fear of being labeled "pansies" and being stuck in that same category with those redheaded flakes, sought a word for their accounts that was more mature, exhibiting a sense of grown-up sophistication, a term that was even more masculine, to a degree. While this may not be reminiscent of the dictionary definition, I still say that the word "journal" is just something to hide behind.
I'd probably hide it myself - if I ever felt compelled to incriminate myself and my family name by preserving in words the life I have lived, a life riddle with the grandeur of pride and wealth, yet punctuated by humiliation and cowardice. The last is, of course, why I refuse to put my days into writing, so I will tell you the tale by mouth, and woe betide you if I catch you taking notes while I recount, especially with a Quick-Quotes Quill. Then it's the rack for you. Don't screw with me - I'm a Malfoy, and you know what that means.
I need no quill to give voice to my stories (though I wouldn't say no to a phoenix quill.....or an Augurey one - HA! Fooled you, Mudblood!), and I will prove it to you by telling you the true story of Harry Potter, as seen through my own grey eyes.
Why do I tell you Potter's story, when you already know it by heart? Why do I not tell you my own? I do this because Potter and I....our lives are inextricably intertwined. He has become my bane, my rival, my archenemy, the patron of everything I was brought up to despise. If it were not for Potter, my life would be perfect - yet we would be nothing without each other. Everything that you've come to me to hear about, the taunting and duels and Quidditch matches...we loathe each other, but still we will forever remain a major part of each other's lives. As it was in the beginning.....
~Listen and listen well
~To the tale I have to tell
~Though your spirit may be blind
~To the sense of what I say
~Print my words upon your mind
~Before you go away
(Neverending Story - just some Muggle literature - why did the author call it "neverending" when it ends after four hundred and forty-odd pages?)
Some of you listening in the audience may well remember the days when He- Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's reign of terror was at it's first devastating peak, as He conquered anyone and anything that opposed Him - every obstacle fell to His malicious purpose. The widespread panic, the mutiny at the Ministry....it takes a great Dark wizard to cause such mayhem that the only safe place was Hogwarts. Hogwarts!! Yes, it down that THAT bloody level! None before....Voldemort....had so wounded the magical community and its relations with Muggles.
I most certainly can't convey to you my own memories of that timeline - most particularly the last year - as I was far too young to store the images and sounds in my mind. But, though it is another story to be told at another time, I could recite to you the glorious war tales I've heard from my father and his subordinate Death Eaters. Yes, how well I can recall them, all of the wondrous bedtime stories and accounts remembered over a few bottles of Firewhiskey at my parents' little parties (yes, just the little ones - we weren't going to risk exposing the truth or the vast stores of Firewhiskey at the big parties), where the revered Papas would regale the future generation of Death Eaters - myself included - with amusingly cruel tales of torture and pleading, blood and murder.
Ah, I see some hands going up. Questions? Settle down, for I know what's on your mind. You're wondering about the Death Eaters' continued meetings after the fall of their Dark Lord. Why, when most of the men present had been accused of Death Eater activity, did they gather and risk raising suspicion? Why, if they yet walked free of Azkaban, did they not seek out their Master, to whom they had sworn everlasting allegiance?
Who was there to stop us? Fudge...? To a mere bystander, Fudge's blindness when it came to his ignorance of Death Eaters could be put down to trust. While Fudge remained a frequent visitor to the Manor, he was easy to poke fun at for his utter lack of realization that his most trusted employees had actually been in the pay of Lord...Voldemort...and many of the Ministry witches and warlocks were on at least my father's infamous Willing-To-Be- Bribed List, though the Malfoys were not the only prominent Death Eater family to pay up or resort to cajoling of the threatening-and-blackmail variety. And as for those not on the list, they were too frightened to interfere, or in the case of those meddlesome Weasleys, were too lowly and had not the power to do anything about our little trysts. While many overlooked the atrocities my father had been acquitted of based on our family's prestigious legacy (though through that legacy we were well-known for our dabbling in the Dark Arts), others feared our far-reaching influence and affluence, and refused to risk their lives, families, jobs, and what little fortune they possessed to put an end to our gatherings.
And as for deserting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, I think it's time for us to return to our school days. Now, I'm sure all of you who attended Hogwarts will remember that leaden pit in you stomach as you were lead as promising First Years in front of the school, made to stand and wait while staring at that that little stool and that Hat. The Sorting Hat, that evil of the same kind which I believe Muggles term "Freshman Initiation" (Ugh, I used a Muggle phrase! See how Dumbledore's influence has penetrated and ruined the school!), would sit there, sing its yearly original ditty, and then do its little job. Yet, for all the Hat's significance, I simply want to point out to you the words of the songs, the implied and also the straightforward meanings.
Though I have heard numerous renditions, none put it better than First Year and Fourth Year. I still can reminisce about my own Sorting - your mind has a habit of storing all the worst moments in your life, and while I was confident I would be placed in Slytherin like all my family had been for centuries (quite the same as how the Weasleys always had space reserved for them in Gryffindor), I still loathed being Sorted before the entire school - all those pigheaded Gryffindors hissing and leering!
All the same, you must try to think about these quotes:
You might belong in Gryffindor
Where dwell the brave at heart
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart
You might belong in Hufflepuff
Where they are just and loyal
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw
If you've a ready mind
Where those of wit and learning
Will always find their kind
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends
By Gryffindor, the bravest were
Prized far above the rest
For Ravenclaw, the cleverest
Would always be the best
By Hufflepuff, hard workers were
Most worthy of admission
And power-hungry Slytherin
Loved those of great ambition
If you're not catching on yet, you're slower than Longbottom. All right, I'll let you ponder one more hint (don't think I'm going to give you all the answers that easily, Mudbloods). Although I'm getting slightly ahead of myself, I'd like to share with you a tidbit of conversation forever flitting through my mind like some sort of mantra, overheard the day I finally saw Potter with my own eyes on what was most likely his first trip to Diagon Alley.
Potter was in the company of that brutish mongrel Hagrid (tell me, and be honest: Do you really think Dumbledore ever received the governors' approval to hire him? Then again, Dumbledore always did think too highly of his own power), so while it was considerably easy to overlook the skinny dark-haired figure that was Potter, it was highly unthinkable that you wouldn't notice the gamekeeper. The odd pair were conversing quite unobtrusively - as unobtrusively as they could when one of their number was the size of twin Erumpents standing length-wise one on top of the other) and eating ice cream outside Florean Fortescue's as I passed by with Father, having just left Madame Malkins' after thirty minutes of waiting while my school robes were perfectly tailored by those with expertise.
The boy, who I had met in Madame Malkins' and would later learn was indeed the "Savior" of the wizarding world, must have just questioned this heathen guardian about school houses, for I distinctly heard the giant say clandestinely, "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin."
A gleeful smirk then distorted my features, my posture becoming jaunty, anticipation frothing in my stomach, and I gazed proudly up at my father, who maintained an aloof countenance.
While Hagrid's words weren't entirely true - look at Sirius Black! - they fit a startlingly accurate stereotype. Seldom was there a servant of...Voldemort...who was not a Slytherin, former or present. So if they were servants, supporting the Dark Lord, why were they so hesitant to restore Him to power?
The Gryffindors flourish best where courage is needed. These sorcerers who followed the Dark Lord were not known for bravery - why else would they operate in secrecy? If true Dark wizards are proud of what they do, if it holds true to their beliefs, why do they not openly display their position? If they have the power, why should they be intimidated by using it? No, unlike the one they followed, the sheep of the Dark Shepherd were not straightforward with unmasked emotions, and they most definitely weren't bold enough to risk a life sentence in Azkaban for a Dark Lord defeated by nothing more than a green-eyed baby.
And unlike those daisy-and-sunshine Hufflepuffs, the word "loyalty" comes out of a Slytherin's mouth about as often as, "Aww, that is SO CUTE!!" These disciples of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would not remain true to their teacher (despite the traditional ceremony and declaration of loyalty that was called for when a newcomer offered his or her arm for the Dark Mark), for they sought power. Whoever was useful in that hunt for supremacy would be used, even the Dark Lord himself. Now that...Voldemort...had fled, why would the Death Eaters defend their Master if they could set themselves up as dark lords as fearsome as they could possibly become?
Perhaps it is only with Ravenclaw that Slytherin house shares qualities. We're cunning, tricksy, clever - smart enough to know that searching for He- Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was as intelligent and safe a move as sticking a body part in a Pensieve or....or...or interrupting one of Severus Snape's classes. Rather than wind up in the Ministry's Courtroom, bound to a chair and surrounded by Dementors, the disciples of the Dark Arts used every ounce of wit they possessed to save face and the family name, no matter how marred it already was. Bravery, loyalty - it mattered little.
And, fundamentally, what set up the Slytherins' attraction to the Dark Arts? Why are we so stereotyped? Our personalities? You'd feel dark and evil, not to mention evil-tempered, if you'd spent all your school life in the Slytherin Common Room and dungeon-like dorms. How much sunlight do you think we get? What about jolly roaring fires? On winter mornings, you can hardly see your way up the steps to the Common Room between the darkness and the mist hovering around every person's face - that's how easily you can see your breath! Permanent PMS from every student! In comparison with the rest of the school, how happy do you think we are down there?
And as for our reputation of unpleasantness...I'm sure that this bigotry first got started from some petty little fight - a Slytherin, grumpy from waking up in the dungeons, hexed a cheerful little Hufflepuff First Year, then bitched out a Gryffindor professor, much to the delight of his equally grumpy housemates; and when Ravenclaws, who pretend to pride themselves on being unprejudiced because of their unsurpassable knowledge, saw how delighted the Slytherins were with causing unhappiness, they turned their backs as well. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw have each other. When all else fails, those three houses fall back on each other. Who supports Slytherin? Professor Snape? The rest of the school has it so much better than us, and we're bitter. That's why we go to all lengths to disrupt everyday Hogwarts life, plotting the downfall of the other three houses, most importantly Gryffindor. We Slytherins got the shaft, and the school - the building, teachers, and the student body - reminds us of it every day. We love chaos and disaster in other houses because it means that, for once, someone else knows how we feel; for once, some other house knows defeat. And because we take out our bitterness in bully-victim interaction, we Slytherins are reviled. Psychologically, how do you think that makes us want to react? Do you actually think we'd run off into the greenhouses, make chains of puffapod flowers, and hand them out as gifts with big "Joy to the World" smiles on our faces? NO! We're just going to turn nastier, spurred on by increased bitterness, bitterness derived from having failed yet again! We happily hex any fool who gets in the way just to make ourselves feel important, powerful, exalted....
And then we get detention for hexing someone as pathetic as Longbottom. Since when is that a crime? Longbottom should count it as practice for learning counter-curses! Don't the professors realize that we're just giving the idiot a bit of hands-on training?
Or we get turned into ferrets. But that's a story to be told much, much later - IF I am so inclined to tell you that most embarrassing moment in my life.
So Slytherins - deserted, abandoned, and living separate from the rest of Hogwarts - daily seek methods of revenge. And most ingenious and note- worthy methods of revenge are usually to be found in Dark Arts books. Well, for the most part, we Slytherins do treasure learning that will bring us feelings of domination, ambitious as we are. And so our notorious penchant for Dark Arts manifests itself.
But we're not all that bad - we just get a lot more for free that way! We are friendly with each other, you know, and we DO know how to laugh - maliciously, but we each have a dark sense of humor that our housemates find appealing. We're no different from the other three houses. But just imagine a Hogwarts without Slytherin! Where would there be any delicious turmoil? We add our own green block (isn't green symbolic for envy?) on Hogwarts' Schizophrenic Color Wheel!
So, are those mental jigsaw puzzle pieces fitting together yet? These Death Eaters, mostly power-seeking Slytherins united under the wing of the Dark Lord, hunted for the title "Immortal World Overlord", spreading discord across Europe with their minds and wands trained on the rest of the globe.
Until October 31st, 1981.
I was nearly three years old when I finally learned the truth about the Potters, a surname that often cropped up at my parents' parties, both the little and the extravagant ones. Before then, I'd thought of these whispered Potters as figures from some popular book, fantasy and nothing more. Far more real to me was the famed Dark Lord, one whom my parents referred to (at the little parties only) as the greatest Dark wizard to have walked the planet, a Dark wizard who had nearly swallowed all of Europe, after Britain sat in His belly. However, I never connected the names "Potter" and...."Voldemort"....for I had never blurred fiction with reality.
But one day, as I was riding my toy broomstick through the Manor (causing the house-elves much dismay as I tore through the corridors, knocking things over in a childish frenzy of chaos), the Potters rose out of the shadowy past and came alive. It was mother who first told me the story, and this is how it came about.
As I raced past the formal drawing room, I spotted Mother inside, levitating the carpet off the stone floor so that she might enter our largest hidden chamber, a secret place where we hid our most precious Dark Arts materials. From where I hovered at the door, I could see the jewel set in the middle of the stone, the emerald encased in silver that operated as the key to open the chamber.
Opening the "Oubliette", as we sometimes jokingly called that particular room, isn't very difficult at all - if you've Malfoy blood flowing in your veins, or if you've been legally married into the family. All one who bears the name of Malfoy and carries its heritage must do to unlock the chamber is to place his or her hand over the emerald. The jewel had been bewitched long ago to respond only to the touch of my family's people - not even....Voldemort...could enter unwelcome, and any Ministry fool who managed to catch a glimpse of the jewel through the disillusionment charm would see it as decoration, nothing more. When the jewel senses a Malfoy's hand over it, the floor in a five feet radius around the emerald will slowly float down to meet the ground of the chamber below, bringing the visitor with it.
As a child, I was always fascinated with and often addicted to opening the chamber, and I can assure you, I've still go the scars on my wrists from where Father...well, this day, as I watched Mother, was no different. I paused in my pursuit of an invisible Snitch and flew into the drawing room to "aid" my mother. Today, she was bringing a rather unimpressive package down into the Oubliette, a something wrapped simply in brown paper, held together neatly with string and some Spellotape.
Dismounting and shouldering my broom like a champion from a national team, I approached my mother with as much of a spoiled, self-satisfied swagger as all of my 79 centimeters could accomplish.
Looking up at my footsteps, my mother smiled with pleasure and amusement at my attempt to appear as a mature Malfoy.
"Dorako-chan," she called softly. It was her Japanese nickname for me. "Dorako-chan will one day be an excellent Seeker, the best one Hogwarts has ever seen." Her smile never wavering, she beckoned me over. "Will you open the chamber for me, Little Seeker?" She hefted the package into her arms to show that she couldn't touch the emerald.
Eagerly I ran forward, and within seconds, the platform-like floor began to sink downwards, bearing my mother and I upon it.
With an echoing thud, the platform reached the floor of the secret chamber. The moment my mother's foot left the platform and fell gracefully onto the stone floor of the chamber, candles floating in the air burst into life, casting huge shadows on the walls covered with a veritable library of books, and making the torture instruments suspended from the ceiling look even scarier than they normally were.
I loved it down there.
Mother strode purposely over to a cabinet, pulling it open, and was about to lay the package on one of the shelves when I suddenly blurted out with little intimidation, "What's that, Mummy?" Actually, my speech was a little more garbled than that - I WAS barely three...
Turning thoughtfully, the package rustling as it snagged on the door of the cabinet, my mother stared appraisingly at me, piercing me through with her eyes.
"Would you like to see, Draco?"
I nodded gravely. She had abandoned my pet name, so this was secret, this was serious.
Kneeling down on the floor, Mother carefully untied the string and slit open the Spellotape, as I inched nearer for a good look at whatever this grubby package contained.
And out of the wrappings was lifted a plain black cloak, ordinary material; more interesting was the iron mask, entirely free of grotesque design, with small holes for eyes, but contoured to my father's face - I could tell by the prominent bridge of the nose and the high cheekbone ridge.
"These were your father's Death Eater robes, Draco. The robes of a Death Eater, servant to Lord Voldemort, the robes of one who worked diligently to purge the world of the weak. We had hoped that one day you too would wear them, Draco, that one day you would have a mask of your own. But the Dark Lord has not returned to us after so long," she ended heavily.
I remember being puzzled. The Dark Lord I had heard so much about had not come back? Where had He gone to, this man who I was supposed to idolize? And so I asked.
"Ah, Draco, He has gone where none may follow, to a place for those neither living nor dead, all at the hands of the Potters."
I started at the name, and that is when the Potters left the pages of their imagined book. Not knowing the confusion I was feeling, the realization dawning on me, my mother continued.
"The Potters were fools, Draco, struggling with the side of Light which opposed the Dark Lord. However, they were frightened, my child, by the Dark Lord's well of power, frightened into hiding, all because of a prophecy concerning their family. But they were betrayed by their dearest companion unto Lord Voldemort, Draco, for the side of Light is weak and easily tempted. Our Lord went alone to their pitiful home to destroy them nearly two years ago - and He failed. Lily and James Potter perished at His hands, but their child, a baby of your same age, defeated the Dark Lord. We may never know why, but as My Lord - your Lord, Draco - cursed the brat, the Avada reflected and smote the Dark Lord. The boy, Harry Potter, lived with nothing more than a scar.
Many of the witches and wizards of the Light rejoiced, exalting on high the name of Harry Potter, the one who had delivered them from Lord Voldemort's wrath. But the boy was secreted away into the Muggle world, where none may touch him. He will return to attend Hogwarts, the same year as you, Draco. He will not have been brought up to know our ways, but you will teach him. One day, Draco, you will teach the Boy-Who-Lived the truth about the wizard he so unwittingly defeated.
Until then, you also must pretend to worship this boy, pretend to feel like you are in his debt, so that others are convinced of your devotion to the side of Light at a time when followers of the Dark Arts are so persecuted. But one day, you will lead Harry Potter to the side of the Dark, and you and he will wear these robes and masks together when a new Dark Lord rises."
The smile was back on her face, an odd glittering in her eyes. She spoke so passionately for one who followed blindly in her husband's footsteps, not having the Dark Mark on her own arm.
And that was when the ache in my chest began, an ache born out of my struggling emotions of jealousy, elation, and unadulterated hate. Jealousy, because this boy was famous for a deed that one so young shouldn't have been capable of committing. Jealousy, because my mother seemed to carry some sort of affection for this boy, if she intended me to share a position with him in the future. Elation, for this boy was to become my task, my padawan - I was the one destined to rule this boy, who had defeated, as Mother had called him, My Lord.
And hate, for this Harry Potter had destroyed all that I had looked forward to since I first heard the name of....Voldemort. Harry Potter had robbed me of my own cloak and mask. The first lesson I would teach this boy was humiliation, before we even got started on those Dark Arts.
Mother pulled me out of my reverie with a sing-song "Time to go, Dorako- chan!" All too soon, the cloak and mask were hidden away in their dark, musty cabinet, and Mother and I were being borne upward and away back to the drawing room.
I had eight years to brood on this Harry Potter figure, eight years disappointingly free of the Dark Lord. Rumors began to grow that...Voldemort...was gone for good, and this only increased my brooding. And the stories flying from the mouths of witches and wizards claiming to have encountered in the Muggle world a dark-haired, green-eyed boy with a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead made my heart leap while my stomach plummeted at the same time. My parents' parties were tending towards the crowded side, where gaggles of Ministry witches gossiped happily about how peaceful the office was now that the Dark Lord had vanished, and where warlocks, so set in their ways, could not resist raising at least one traditional cheerful toast to that overrated Boy-Who- Lived.
I had eight years to dream of replacing my "playmates" Vincent and Gregory with someone in possession of formidable power, someone who could possibly match me in wit as well. Crabbe and Goyle I had known from my earliest years - they were often to be found in the children's room at my parents' parties. When they were six, they were deemed old enough to become presents for me, presents to become friends, though in my opinion, they still claimed the mentality of a three year old. You see, their parents, lowly-on- the-totem-pole Death Eaters, wished for their sons to be enriched by spending time with me in my father's Manor. Here, in the hallowed halls of my ancestors, children's playtime usually involved us engaging in a battle of hide-and-seek - and whenever it was my turn to hide, I always chained either Crabbe or Goyle to the wall, telling them that that was how Dark wizards played the game. They never found me.
I had eight years to study up on my heritage, my bloodline, and my Dark Arts, for I would not embarrass myself when it came time to teach Potter all that he needed to know. We would be the most powerful purebloods together forever, prideful brothers. We would be inseparable, leaders of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Father had protested about the Hogwarts bid - he was more interested in supplementing my knowledge of the Dark Arts and keeping that learning within the Malfoy family than he was in corrupting the Boy-Who-Lived. If my father had his way, I would be using my skill at Potions of Dark Arts origin to poison said Boy on my first day at Hogwarts.
For no matter how many parties passed with my parents' claims of bewitchment and innocence, and no matter how many people believed their claims, Mother and Father adamantly lived in the Dark, denying the Light that tried to worm its way into the Manor via Fudge and his cheery, bumbling followers. One thing remained consistent: no Mudblood ever set foot in our home. The Ministry pretended not to notice this, and thus all remained quiet. In the quiet evenings, my father could be found in the Oubliette, reading or inventing new hexes and curses. Mother would oversee the house-elves, and the occasional rebel was seen to by her own hand. And I....
I flew. When I was old enough to handle a real broom, when I had finally outgrown the little toy ones, I was presented with my very own Comet Two Sixty. I treasured that broom, for it would one day lead me to a real Quidditch pitch if I developed my talents properly. I never had a real lesson when it came to flying - but it wasn't like I really needed them. I had been using toy brooms since shortly after I had learned to walk consistently without tumbling. After I received my Two Sixty, every day would find me soaring over the Manor, over the grounds, over the forest that borders the Malfoy lands....there was utter freedom to be found in flying that the cloister of the Manor ate away at.
Too much freedom leads to carelessness, though, and I fell victim to that. Unobserved by my parents or the house-elves, I would stray farther and farther from my territory every day I flew. Until the day I got entirely lost.
Now, you must understand, getting lost is not something that happens to a Malfoy often. I had just been flying so long that I didn't notice the position of the sun as I looped and soared and rocketed around the sky, and completely lost track of time. What I thought was shortly before noon was actually nearly two in the afternoon, and so I went haring off into the west instead of the east.
And out of the blue, I heard this humming noise, a strange vibration. The unfamiliar fields far below my broom were devoid of activity, so what was this ominous sound? But then, I saw it - some huge bird roaring through the air directly at me from my right side. I halted in midair, unsure of what was going on. Was it a young dragon? A hippogriff?
But my stomach contracted a combination of fear and dawning recognition, as it drew closer, almost as if it were heading straight for me, as if I was its target. Those propellers rotating, that black shell...it was a Muggle contraption I'd seen only in books: a helicopter. And it was full to bursting with Muggles.
I panicked. And my first instinct was to hide. I sped downwards, only to realize with a thrill of horror that below me was nothing more than fields of crops and pastures of grazing sheep. Leveling out of the dive just as my feet nicked the tops of the wheat, I skimmed above the crops, heading straight for the woods, all the while painfully aware of my labored breathing and that abominable roar of the engine behind and above me.
It was with relief that I reached the shelter of the sparse forest, and as fast as I could, I dismounted, stumbling in my haste. Throwing myself behind a tree, I listened with my heart thudding madly in my chest to the sound of the helicopter skirting just above the trees, searching for me. Luckily, the Muggles didn't linger, perhaps thinking they had mistaken me and my broom for a bird, and soon the whirring faded as it passed over my hiding spot, soon the noise vanished.
I didn't move till well past five, when the shadows in the woods were beginning to lengthen. And it was in that dusk that I returned to the Manor, hands sweaty with fear as they clutched my broomstick.
But it was in that day that I discovered I liked being afraid, I liked feeling trapped, and I liked the feeling afterwards, the feeling of having faced the unknown and outwitted it, having escaped. And so that was not the last time I nearly let myself be caught by Muggles - I've still got the scars on my ankles where Father.....well, that was how I spent my childhood. Those were the happy days when Harry Potter was like my imaginary friend, when I still was able to dream as I grew and changed. That was when I worked to one day prove to my mother that Harry Potter was as good as Malfoy property.
Then the interlude came, that time between July 31st, 1991, and lasting until September 1st, 1991. That's when my fantasy came crashing down on me.
~
Next Chapter: Philosopher's Stone!!
Okay, "Dorako" is really just how you pronounce "Draco" in Japanese - Do-ra- ko, with a long "A" like the "A" in "father", not the same "A" sound as in English, and there are no stressed syllables. "-Chan" is just an affectionate ending used on children. "Dorako-chan" is what Midori and I call Draco, since we adore him.
Oh, and for those who know the Neverending Story quote, I thought it fit nicely. Love the Neverending Story!! Read it if you haven't already, because the movies do it little justice!! Pity me, for I left my copy at home!! It wouldn't fit with all the Harry Potter books....
Shun-chan
Now, as for me.... As of writing this, I have exactly two months and two days left in Japan, so don't expect loads of updates. I have a pasucon at home, but it is evil tempered and does not agree with modern contrivances like the internet. So all I can do is type. Thank Merlin for my best friend here in Japan, Midori, who back in January gave me three disks filled with Draco, Lucius, and Snape screencaps, and thank Merlin there was space left on one of them to store my fanfics. I managed to find a nice little internet café where they only charge you \400 for an hour, and I'll be able to go there once a week. ONCE a WEEK!! ARGH!!
READ ME: This fic is basically a retelling of Harry Potter, told from Draco's point of view. It's supposed to be Draco talking to an audience, so read it as if you're listening to someone tell a story...oh, and there's a little Weasley-bashing, for even though I adore the Weasleys (especially Percy - I think he's so neglected!!), I don't think Draco quite does... and also, the opening kind of bashes those who write in diaries. Which, um, includes me - I've got about 26 volumes accumulated from over the past two- and-a-half years, so don't think that I hate people who right in diaries, 'cause I'm one of them.
Secondly, I am pro-Slytherin. I don't go a day without wearing my Slytherin sweater (thank God for washing machines and maids who do you're laundry while you're at school), and I made my mother mail me my Draco figurine from the US so that he might act as my muse. No, I don't think using Neville for hexing practice is nice, but I really feel that the Slytherins are quite misunderstood.
More at the end....
~
I don't keep a diary. Diaries are for silly little redheaded twits who, in their starvation of both food and affection, have fallen deep into the devious plots and manipulative traps of the Malfoy family.
I don't keep a journal either. For those who don't understand the difference between either method of recording, perhaps if I enlighten you with my own opinion, you'll begin to recognize the true meaning of the words.
Journals are for those too cowardly to admit that they do indeed keep a diary. Writers of these so-called "journals", overwhelmed by the fear of being labeled "pansies" and being stuck in that same category with those redheaded flakes, sought a word for their accounts that was more mature, exhibiting a sense of grown-up sophistication, a term that was even more masculine, to a degree. While this may not be reminiscent of the dictionary definition, I still say that the word "journal" is just something to hide behind.
I'd probably hide it myself - if I ever felt compelled to incriminate myself and my family name by preserving in words the life I have lived, a life riddle with the grandeur of pride and wealth, yet punctuated by humiliation and cowardice. The last is, of course, why I refuse to put my days into writing, so I will tell you the tale by mouth, and woe betide you if I catch you taking notes while I recount, especially with a Quick-Quotes Quill. Then it's the rack for you. Don't screw with me - I'm a Malfoy, and you know what that means.
I need no quill to give voice to my stories (though I wouldn't say no to a phoenix quill.....or an Augurey one - HA! Fooled you, Mudblood!), and I will prove it to you by telling you the true story of Harry Potter, as seen through my own grey eyes.
Why do I tell you Potter's story, when you already know it by heart? Why do I not tell you my own? I do this because Potter and I....our lives are inextricably intertwined. He has become my bane, my rival, my archenemy, the patron of everything I was brought up to despise. If it were not for Potter, my life would be perfect - yet we would be nothing without each other. Everything that you've come to me to hear about, the taunting and duels and Quidditch matches...we loathe each other, but still we will forever remain a major part of each other's lives. As it was in the beginning.....
~Listen and listen well
~To the tale I have to tell
~Though your spirit may be blind
~To the sense of what I say
~Print my words upon your mind
~Before you go away
(Neverending Story - just some Muggle literature - why did the author call it "neverending" when it ends after four hundred and forty-odd pages?)
Some of you listening in the audience may well remember the days when He- Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's reign of terror was at it's first devastating peak, as He conquered anyone and anything that opposed Him - every obstacle fell to His malicious purpose. The widespread panic, the mutiny at the Ministry....it takes a great Dark wizard to cause such mayhem that the only safe place was Hogwarts. Hogwarts!! Yes, it down that THAT bloody level! None before....Voldemort....had so wounded the magical community and its relations with Muggles.
I most certainly can't convey to you my own memories of that timeline - most particularly the last year - as I was far too young to store the images and sounds in my mind. But, though it is another story to be told at another time, I could recite to you the glorious war tales I've heard from my father and his subordinate Death Eaters. Yes, how well I can recall them, all of the wondrous bedtime stories and accounts remembered over a few bottles of Firewhiskey at my parents' little parties (yes, just the little ones - we weren't going to risk exposing the truth or the vast stores of Firewhiskey at the big parties), where the revered Papas would regale the future generation of Death Eaters - myself included - with amusingly cruel tales of torture and pleading, blood and murder.
Ah, I see some hands going up. Questions? Settle down, for I know what's on your mind. You're wondering about the Death Eaters' continued meetings after the fall of their Dark Lord. Why, when most of the men present had been accused of Death Eater activity, did they gather and risk raising suspicion? Why, if they yet walked free of Azkaban, did they not seek out their Master, to whom they had sworn everlasting allegiance?
Who was there to stop us? Fudge...? To a mere bystander, Fudge's blindness when it came to his ignorance of Death Eaters could be put down to trust. While Fudge remained a frequent visitor to the Manor, he was easy to poke fun at for his utter lack of realization that his most trusted employees had actually been in the pay of Lord...Voldemort...and many of the Ministry witches and warlocks were on at least my father's infamous Willing-To-Be- Bribed List, though the Malfoys were not the only prominent Death Eater family to pay up or resort to cajoling of the threatening-and-blackmail variety. And as for those not on the list, they were too frightened to interfere, or in the case of those meddlesome Weasleys, were too lowly and had not the power to do anything about our little trysts. While many overlooked the atrocities my father had been acquitted of based on our family's prestigious legacy (though through that legacy we were well-known for our dabbling in the Dark Arts), others feared our far-reaching influence and affluence, and refused to risk their lives, families, jobs, and what little fortune they possessed to put an end to our gatherings.
And as for deserting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, I think it's time for us to return to our school days. Now, I'm sure all of you who attended Hogwarts will remember that leaden pit in you stomach as you were lead as promising First Years in front of the school, made to stand and wait while staring at that that little stool and that Hat. The Sorting Hat, that evil of the same kind which I believe Muggles term "Freshman Initiation" (Ugh, I used a Muggle phrase! See how Dumbledore's influence has penetrated and ruined the school!), would sit there, sing its yearly original ditty, and then do its little job. Yet, for all the Hat's significance, I simply want to point out to you the words of the songs, the implied and also the straightforward meanings.
Though I have heard numerous renditions, none put it better than First Year and Fourth Year. I still can reminisce about my own Sorting - your mind has a habit of storing all the worst moments in your life, and while I was confident I would be placed in Slytherin like all my family had been for centuries (quite the same as how the Weasleys always had space reserved for them in Gryffindor), I still loathed being Sorted before the entire school - all those pigheaded Gryffindors hissing and leering!
All the same, you must try to think about these quotes:
You might belong in Gryffindor
Where dwell the brave at heart
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart
You might belong in Hufflepuff
Where they are just and loyal
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw
If you've a ready mind
Where those of wit and learning
Will always find their kind
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends
By Gryffindor, the bravest were
Prized far above the rest
For Ravenclaw, the cleverest
Would always be the best
By Hufflepuff, hard workers were
Most worthy of admission
And power-hungry Slytherin
Loved those of great ambition
If you're not catching on yet, you're slower than Longbottom. All right, I'll let you ponder one more hint (don't think I'm going to give you all the answers that easily, Mudbloods). Although I'm getting slightly ahead of myself, I'd like to share with you a tidbit of conversation forever flitting through my mind like some sort of mantra, overheard the day I finally saw Potter with my own eyes on what was most likely his first trip to Diagon Alley.
Potter was in the company of that brutish mongrel Hagrid (tell me, and be honest: Do you really think Dumbledore ever received the governors' approval to hire him? Then again, Dumbledore always did think too highly of his own power), so while it was considerably easy to overlook the skinny dark-haired figure that was Potter, it was highly unthinkable that you wouldn't notice the gamekeeper. The odd pair were conversing quite unobtrusively - as unobtrusively as they could when one of their number was the size of twin Erumpents standing length-wise one on top of the other) and eating ice cream outside Florean Fortescue's as I passed by with Father, having just left Madame Malkins' after thirty minutes of waiting while my school robes were perfectly tailored by those with expertise.
The boy, who I had met in Madame Malkins' and would later learn was indeed the "Savior" of the wizarding world, must have just questioned this heathen guardian about school houses, for I distinctly heard the giant say clandestinely, "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin."
A gleeful smirk then distorted my features, my posture becoming jaunty, anticipation frothing in my stomach, and I gazed proudly up at my father, who maintained an aloof countenance.
While Hagrid's words weren't entirely true - look at Sirius Black! - they fit a startlingly accurate stereotype. Seldom was there a servant of...Voldemort...who was not a Slytherin, former or present. So if they were servants, supporting the Dark Lord, why were they so hesitant to restore Him to power?
The Gryffindors flourish best where courage is needed. These sorcerers who followed the Dark Lord were not known for bravery - why else would they operate in secrecy? If true Dark wizards are proud of what they do, if it holds true to their beliefs, why do they not openly display their position? If they have the power, why should they be intimidated by using it? No, unlike the one they followed, the sheep of the Dark Shepherd were not straightforward with unmasked emotions, and they most definitely weren't bold enough to risk a life sentence in Azkaban for a Dark Lord defeated by nothing more than a green-eyed baby.
And unlike those daisy-and-sunshine Hufflepuffs, the word "loyalty" comes out of a Slytherin's mouth about as often as, "Aww, that is SO CUTE!!" These disciples of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would not remain true to their teacher (despite the traditional ceremony and declaration of loyalty that was called for when a newcomer offered his or her arm for the Dark Mark), for they sought power. Whoever was useful in that hunt for supremacy would be used, even the Dark Lord himself. Now that...Voldemort...had fled, why would the Death Eaters defend their Master if they could set themselves up as dark lords as fearsome as they could possibly become?
Perhaps it is only with Ravenclaw that Slytherin house shares qualities. We're cunning, tricksy, clever - smart enough to know that searching for He- Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was as intelligent and safe a move as sticking a body part in a Pensieve or....or...or interrupting one of Severus Snape's classes. Rather than wind up in the Ministry's Courtroom, bound to a chair and surrounded by Dementors, the disciples of the Dark Arts used every ounce of wit they possessed to save face and the family name, no matter how marred it already was. Bravery, loyalty - it mattered little.
And, fundamentally, what set up the Slytherins' attraction to the Dark Arts? Why are we so stereotyped? Our personalities? You'd feel dark and evil, not to mention evil-tempered, if you'd spent all your school life in the Slytherin Common Room and dungeon-like dorms. How much sunlight do you think we get? What about jolly roaring fires? On winter mornings, you can hardly see your way up the steps to the Common Room between the darkness and the mist hovering around every person's face - that's how easily you can see your breath! Permanent PMS from every student! In comparison with the rest of the school, how happy do you think we are down there?
And as for our reputation of unpleasantness...I'm sure that this bigotry first got started from some petty little fight - a Slytherin, grumpy from waking up in the dungeons, hexed a cheerful little Hufflepuff First Year, then bitched out a Gryffindor professor, much to the delight of his equally grumpy housemates; and when Ravenclaws, who pretend to pride themselves on being unprejudiced because of their unsurpassable knowledge, saw how delighted the Slytherins were with causing unhappiness, they turned their backs as well. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw have each other. When all else fails, those three houses fall back on each other. Who supports Slytherin? Professor Snape? The rest of the school has it so much better than us, and we're bitter. That's why we go to all lengths to disrupt everyday Hogwarts life, plotting the downfall of the other three houses, most importantly Gryffindor. We Slytherins got the shaft, and the school - the building, teachers, and the student body - reminds us of it every day. We love chaos and disaster in other houses because it means that, for once, someone else knows how we feel; for once, some other house knows defeat. And because we take out our bitterness in bully-victim interaction, we Slytherins are reviled. Psychologically, how do you think that makes us want to react? Do you actually think we'd run off into the greenhouses, make chains of puffapod flowers, and hand them out as gifts with big "Joy to the World" smiles on our faces? NO! We're just going to turn nastier, spurred on by increased bitterness, bitterness derived from having failed yet again! We happily hex any fool who gets in the way just to make ourselves feel important, powerful, exalted....
And then we get detention for hexing someone as pathetic as Longbottom. Since when is that a crime? Longbottom should count it as practice for learning counter-curses! Don't the professors realize that we're just giving the idiot a bit of hands-on training?
Or we get turned into ferrets. But that's a story to be told much, much later - IF I am so inclined to tell you that most embarrassing moment in my life.
So Slytherins - deserted, abandoned, and living separate from the rest of Hogwarts - daily seek methods of revenge. And most ingenious and note- worthy methods of revenge are usually to be found in Dark Arts books. Well, for the most part, we Slytherins do treasure learning that will bring us feelings of domination, ambitious as we are. And so our notorious penchant for Dark Arts manifests itself.
But we're not all that bad - we just get a lot more for free that way! We are friendly with each other, you know, and we DO know how to laugh - maliciously, but we each have a dark sense of humor that our housemates find appealing. We're no different from the other three houses. But just imagine a Hogwarts without Slytherin! Where would there be any delicious turmoil? We add our own green block (isn't green symbolic for envy?) on Hogwarts' Schizophrenic Color Wheel!
So, are those mental jigsaw puzzle pieces fitting together yet? These Death Eaters, mostly power-seeking Slytherins united under the wing of the Dark Lord, hunted for the title "Immortal World Overlord", spreading discord across Europe with their minds and wands trained on the rest of the globe.
Until October 31st, 1981.
I was nearly three years old when I finally learned the truth about the Potters, a surname that often cropped up at my parents' parties, both the little and the extravagant ones. Before then, I'd thought of these whispered Potters as figures from some popular book, fantasy and nothing more. Far more real to me was the famed Dark Lord, one whom my parents referred to (at the little parties only) as the greatest Dark wizard to have walked the planet, a Dark wizard who had nearly swallowed all of Europe, after Britain sat in His belly. However, I never connected the names "Potter" and...."Voldemort"....for I had never blurred fiction with reality.
But one day, as I was riding my toy broomstick through the Manor (causing the house-elves much dismay as I tore through the corridors, knocking things over in a childish frenzy of chaos), the Potters rose out of the shadowy past and came alive. It was mother who first told me the story, and this is how it came about.
As I raced past the formal drawing room, I spotted Mother inside, levitating the carpet off the stone floor so that she might enter our largest hidden chamber, a secret place where we hid our most precious Dark Arts materials. From where I hovered at the door, I could see the jewel set in the middle of the stone, the emerald encased in silver that operated as the key to open the chamber.
Opening the "Oubliette", as we sometimes jokingly called that particular room, isn't very difficult at all - if you've Malfoy blood flowing in your veins, or if you've been legally married into the family. All one who bears the name of Malfoy and carries its heritage must do to unlock the chamber is to place his or her hand over the emerald. The jewel had been bewitched long ago to respond only to the touch of my family's people - not even....Voldemort...could enter unwelcome, and any Ministry fool who managed to catch a glimpse of the jewel through the disillusionment charm would see it as decoration, nothing more. When the jewel senses a Malfoy's hand over it, the floor in a five feet radius around the emerald will slowly float down to meet the ground of the chamber below, bringing the visitor with it.
As a child, I was always fascinated with and often addicted to opening the chamber, and I can assure you, I've still go the scars on my wrists from where Father...well, this day, as I watched Mother, was no different. I paused in my pursuit of an invisible Snitch and flew into the drawing room to "aid" my mother. Today, she was bringing a rather unimpressive package down into the Oubliette, a something wrapped simply in brown paper, held together neatly with string and some Spellotape.
Dismounting and shouldering my broom like a champion from a national team, I approached my mother with as much of a spoiled, self-satisfied swagger as all of my 79 centimeters could accomplish.
Looking up at my footsteps, my mother smiled with pleasure and amusement at my attempt to appear as a mature Malfoy.
"Dorako-chan," she called softly. It was her Japanese nickname for me. "Dorako-chan will one day be an excellent Seeker, the best one Hogwarts has ever seen." Her smile never wavering, she beckoned me over. "Will you open the chamber for me, Little Seeker?" She hefted the package into her arms to show that she couldn't touch the emerald.
Eagerly I ran forward, and within seconds, the platform-like floor began to sink downwards, bearing my mother and I upon it.
With an echoing thud, the platform reached the floor of the secret chamber. The moment my mother's foot left the platform and fell gracefully onto the stone floor of the chamber, candles floating in the air burst into life, casting huge shadows on the walls covered with a veritable library of books, and making the torture instruments suspended from the ceiling look even scarier than they normally were.
I loved it down there.
Mother strode purposely over to a cabinet, pulling it open, and was about to lay the package on one of the shelves when I suddenly blurted out with little intimidation, "What's that, Mummy?" Actually, my speech was a little more garbled than that - I WAS barely three...
Turning thoughtfully, the package rustling as it snagged on the door of the cabinet, my mother stared appraisingly at me, piercing me through with her eyes.
"Would you like to see, Draco?"
I nodded gravely. She had abandoned my pet name, so this was secret, this was serious.
Kneeling down on the floor, Mother carefully untied the string and slit open the Spellotape, as I inched nearer for a good look at whatever this grubby package contained.
And out of the wrappings was lifted a plain black cloak, ordinary material; more interesting was the iron mask, entirely free of grotesque design, with small holes for eyes, but contoured to my father's face - I could tell by the prominent bridge of the nose and the high cheekbone ridge.
"These were your father's Death Eater robes, Draco. The robes of a Death Eater, servant to Lord Voldemort, the robes of one who worked diligently to purge the world of the weak. We had hoped that one day you too would wear them, Draco, that one day you would have a mask of your own. But the Dark Lord has not returned to us after so long," she ended heavily.
I remember being puzzled. The Dark Lord I had heard so much about had not come back? Where had He gone to, this man who I was supposed to idolize? And so I asked.
"Ah, Draco, He has gone where none may follow, to a place for those neither living nor dead, all at the hands of the Potters."
I started at the name, and that is when the Potters left the pages of their imagined book. Not knowing the confusion I was feeling, the realization dawning on me, my mother continued.
"The Potters were fools, Draco, struggling with the side of Light which opposed the Dark Lord. However, they were frightened, my child, by the Dark Lord's well of power, frightened into hiding, all because of a prophecy concerning their family. But they were betrayed by their dearest companion unto Lord Voldemort, Draco, for the side of Light is weak and easily tempted. Our Lord went alone to their pitiful home to destroy them nearly two years ago - and He failed. Lily and James Potter perished at His hands, but their child, a baby of your same age, defeated the Dark Lord. We may never know why, but as My Lord - your Lord, Draco - cursed the brat, the Avada reflected and smote the Dark Lord. The boy, Harry Potter, lived with nothing more than a scar.
Many of the witches and wizards of the Light rejoiced, exalting on high the name of Harry Potter, the one who had delivered them from Lord Voldemort's wrath. But the boy was secreted away into the Muggle world, where none may touch him. He will return to attend Hogwarts, the same year as you, Draco. He will not have been brought up to know our ways, but you will teach him. One day, Draco, you will teach the Boy-Who-Lived the truth about the wizard he so unwittingly defeated.
Until then, you also must pretend to worship this boy, pretend to feel like you are in his debt, so that others are convinced of your devotion to the side of Light at a time when followers of the Dark Arts are so persecuted. But one day, you will lead Harry Potter to the side of the Dark, and you and he will wear these robes and masks together when a new Dark Lord rises."
The smile was back on her face, an odd glittering in her eyes. She spoke so passionately for one who followed blindly in her husband's footsteps, not having the Dark Mark on her own arm.
And that was when the ache in my chest began, an ache born out of my struggling emotions of jealousy, elation, and unadulterated hate. Jealousy, because this boy was famous for a deed that one so young shouldn't have been capable of committing. Jealousy, because my mother seemed to carry some sort of affection for this boy, if she intended me to share a position with him in the future. Elation, for this boy was to become my task, my padawan - I was the one destined to rule this boy, who had defeated, as Mother had called him, My Lord.
And hate, for this Harry Potter had destroyed all that I had looked forward to since I first heard the name of....Voldemort. Harry Potter had robbed me of my own cloak and mask. The first lesson I would teach this boy was humiliation, before we even got started on those Dark Arts.
Mother pulled me out of my reverie with a sing-song "Time to go, Dorako- chan!" All too soon, the cloak and mask were hidden away in their dark, musty cabinet, and Mother and I were being borne upward and away back to the drawing room.
I had eight years to brood on this Harry Potter figure, eight years disappointingly free of the Dark Lord. Rumors began to grow that...Voldemort...was gone for good, and this only increased my brooding. And the stories flying from the mouths of witches and wizards claiming to have encountered in the Muggle world a dark-haired, green-eyed boy with a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead made my heart leap while my stomach plummeted at the same time. My parents' parties were tending towards the crowded side, where gaggles of Ministry witches gossiped happily about how peaceful the office was now that the Dark Lord had vanished, and where warlocks, so set in their ways, could not resist raising at least one traditional cheerful toast to that overrated Boy-Who- Lived.
I had eight years to dream of replacing my "playmates" Vincent and Gregory with someone in possession of formidable power, someone who could possibly match me in wit as well. Crabbe and Goyle I had known from my earliest years - they were often to be found in the children's room at my parents' parties. When they were six, they were deemed old enough to become presents for me, presents to become friends, though in my opinion, they still claimed the mentality of a three year old. You see, their parents, lowly-on- the-totem-pole Death Eaters, wished for their sons to be enriched by spending time with me in my father's Manor. Here, in the hallowed halls of my ancestors, children's playtime usually involved us engaging in a battle of hide-and-seek - and whenever it was my turn to hide, I always chained either Crabbe or Goyle to the wall, telling them that that was how Dark wizards played the game. They never found me.
I had eight years to study up on my heritage, my bloodline, and my Dark Arts, for I would not embarrass myself when it came time to teach Potter all that he needed to know. We would be the most powerful purebloods together forever, prideful brothers. We would be inseparable, leaders of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Father had protested about the Hogwarts bid - he was more interested in supplementing my knowledge of the Dark Arts and keeping that learning within the Malfoy family than he was in corrupting the Boy-Who-Lived. If my father had his way, I would be using my skill at Potions of Dark Arts origin to poison said Boy on my first day at Hogwarts.
For no matter how many parties passed with my parents' claims of bewitchment and innocence, and no matter how many people believed their claims, Mother and Father adamantly lived in the Dark, denying the Light that tried to worm its way into the Manor via Fudge and his cheery, bumbling followers. One thing remained consistent: no Mudblood ever set foot in our home. The Ministry pretended not to notice this, and thus all remained quiet. In the quiet evenings, my father could be found in the Oubliette, reading or inventing new hexes and curses. Mother would oversee the house-elves, and the occasional rebel was seen to by her own hand. And I....
I flew. When I was old enough to handle a real broom, when I had finally outgrown the little toy ones, I was presented with my very own Comet Two Sixty. I treasured that broom, for it would one day lead me to a real Quidditch pitch if I developed my talents properly. I never had a real lesson when it came to flying - but it wasn't like I really needed them. I had been using toy brooms since shortly after I had learned to walk consistently without tumbling. After I received my Two Sixty, every day would find me soaring over the Manor, over the grounds, over the forest that borders the Malfoy lands....there was utter freedom to be found in flying that the cloister of the Manor ate away at.
Too much freedom leads to carelessness, though, and I fell victim to that. Unobserved by my parents or the house-elves, I would stray farther and farther from my territory every day I flew. Until the day I got entirely lost.
Now, you must understand, getting lost is not something that happens to a Malfoy often. I had just been flying so long that I didn't notice the position of the sun as I looped and soared and rocketed around the sky, and completely lost track of time. What I thought was shortly before noon was actually nearly two in the afternoon, and so I went haring off into the west instead of the east.
And out of the blue, I heard this humming noise, a strange vibration. The unfamiliar fields far below my broom were devoid of activity, so what was this ominous sound? But then, I saw it - some huge bird roaring through the air directly at me from my right side. I halted in midair, unsure of what was going on. Was it a young dragon? A hippogriff?
But my stomach contracted a combination of fear and dawning recognition, as it drew closer, almost as if it were heading straight for me, as if I was its target. Those propellers rotating, that black shell...it was a Muggle contraption I'd seen only in books: a helicopter. And it was full to bursting with Muggles.
I panicked. And my first instinct was to hide. I sped downwards, only to realize with a thrill of horror that below me was nothing more than fields of crops and pastures of grazing sheep. Leveling out of the dive just as my feet nicked the tops of the wheat, I skimmed above the crops, heading straight for the woods, all the while painfully aware of my labored breathing and that abominable roar of the engine behind and above me.
It was with relief that I reached the shelter of the sparse forest, and as fast as I could, I dismounted, stumbling in my haste. Throwing myself behind a tree, I listened with my heart thudding madly in my chest to the sound of the helicopter skirting just above the trees, searching for me. Luckily, the Muggles didn't linger, perhaps thinking they had mistaken me and my broom for a bird, and soon the whirring faded as it passed over my hiding spot, soon the noise vanished.
I didn't move till well past five, when the shadows in the woods were beginning to lengthen. And it was in that dusk that I returned to the Manor, hands sweaty with fear as they clutched my broomstick.
But it was in that day that I discovered I liked being afraid, I liked feeling trapped, and I liked the feeling afterwards, the feeling of having faced the unknown and outwitted it, having escaped. And so that was not the last time I nearly let myself be caught by Muggles - I've still got the scars on my ankles where Father.....well, that was how I spent my childhood. Those were the happy days when Harry Potter was like my imaginary friend, when I still was able to dream as I grew and changed. That was when I worked to one day prove to my mother that Harry Potter was as good as Malfoy property.
Then the interlude came, that time between July 31st, 1991, and lasting until September 1st, 1991. That's when my fantasy came crashing down on me.
~
Next Chapter: Philosopher's Stone!!
Okay, "Dorako" is really just how you pronounce "Draco" in Japanese - Do-ra- ko, with a long "A" like the "A" in "father", not the same "A" sound as in English, and there are no stressed syllables. "-Chan" is just an affectionate ending used on children. "Dorako-chan" is what Midori and I call Draco, since we adore him.
Oh, and for those who know the Neverending Story quote, I thought it fit nicely. Love the Neverending Story!! Read it if you haven't already, because the movies do it little justice!! Pity me, for I left my copy at home!! It wouldn't fit with all the Harry Potter books....
Shun-chan