Disclaimer: I am not JKR. I am a person that is writing fanfic. If I were
JKR, would I be writing fanfic? Nooooo.
A/N Draco is widely hated at Hogwarts. Universally hated?
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Draco Malfoy was sitting in the empty Quidditch stands, panting. He had been chasing that dratted snitch around the field for upwards of an hour. Single practice was bloody annoying, but he did want to stay on the team. The sky was dull and gray, like it always is in England when there's a tourist within a hundred kilometers.
Draco looked around and saw a figure, made small by distance, approaching across the muddy grass. *Oh, great, * he thought. *Dumbledore. *
He would have flown away to avoid the conversation that he knew was coming, but he was the one who had asked. During his first year here, when he was discovered bleeding and half-dead in his bed, Dumbledore made him promise that he wouldn't do anything with out talking to Dumbledore about it first.
It was amazing, he thought distantly, that that secret had never leaked out. Amazing that Dumbledore had not even told Lucius, Draco's father. Most of all, amazing that Dumbledore was actually coming to talk to him.
Wanting to get it over with, he mounted his broomstick and flew to touch down next to the wet old man on the Quidditch field.
*Might as well be civil, * he thought. *Not like I'll have to pretend much longer. *
"Sir." He said. Nothing more; they both knew why they were being drizzled on. The difference between them was that if Draco caught pneumonia, it wouldn't matter; if Dumbledore did, the school would be concerned, instead of delighted.
"Mr. Malfoy." Dumbledore was as dignified as if he was testifying in front of a court, warm and dry. "I hereby give you permission to do what you wish with your life."
To put it mildly, Malfoy was . . . shocked. *What? What is he playing at? * He was stunned. Almost upset. *That damn bastard. _Giving_ me my life, like it was his to decide. Arrogant, stuck-up old man. *
"-The one requirement-"
*Don't you dare give me requirements. *
"-being that-"
*This should be good. *
And this with a hint of wry humor, "-you do not do it on my floors."
*Bloody bastard! He means it! *
"Now, this is hardly a death sentence."
*Oh, yeah? *
"I know that you are not highly pleased with your life. However, it would be well advised of you to . . . Oh, pack your things. Unless you wish to leave it to your . . . (faint distaste) associates. "
*Point. Crabbe and Goyle going through my things? There wouldn't be anything left when they finished. Bleech. *
"A suicide note is traditional-."
*And I am such a one for tradition, aren't I? *
"Yeah. Whatever. Great." With that, Malfoy hopped onto his broom and sped away. *I better go tell Madame Pomfrey to get some cold medicine ready and catch him with it, or she'll kill me. *
He had always been extraordinarily close with the herb-nurse; their friendship dated back to first time he had first tried to kill himself. She had told him a "bedtime story" about a small, ugly second-year girl who had tried to do the same thing and was barely saved.
The point of the story was that it never works.
He had gone to the library to check out a few incidentals he had caught from her story. That bloody book, Hogwarts, A History, turned out to be bloody useful, not that he would ever admit it. It turned out that Madame Pomfrey had been a second year at the only time that all of the details coincided. Minor things, like the stands had only seated two houses, instead of four, that that year the Ministry of Magic had had a renegade, and Dumbledore's beard was died blue. but overall, definite.
Draco had almost laughed when he saw the name of the author of the book. He knew from his father that the man had been a high-ranked Death Eater. He wondered if prissy Granger knew that.
"Ambush the Headmaster with cold medicine, Madame. It's damp out." That errand dispatched, he swooped back out into the hall.
After him an outraged voice called, "No brooms in the corridors, you blooming disaster!"
He chuckled. What language from a lady!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is no place to end it. But hey, the next chapter is in the works. I hope you like it.
A/N Draco is widely hated at Hogwarts. Universally hated?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Draco Malfoy was sitting in the empty Quidditch stands, panting. He had been chasing that dratted snitch around the field for upwards of an hour. Single practice was bloody annoying, but he did want to stay on the team. The sky was dull and gray, like it always is in England when there's a tourist within a hundred kilometers.
Draco looked around and saw a figure, made small by distance, approaching across the muddy grass. *Oh, great, * he thought. *Dumbledore. *
He would have flown away to avoid the conversation that he knew was coming, but he was the one who had asked. During his first year here, when he was discovered bleeding and half-dead in his bed, Dumbledore made him promise that he wouldn't do anything with out talking to Dumbledore about it first.
It was amazing, he thought distantly, that that secret had never leaked out. Amazing that Dumbledore had not even told Lucius, Draco's father. Most of all, amazing that Dumbledore was actually coming to talk to him.
Wanting to get it over with, he mounted his broomstick and flew to touch down next to the wet old man on the Quidditch field.
*Might as well be civil, * he thought. *Not like I'll have to pretend much longer. *
"Sir." He said. Nothing more; they both knew why they were being drizzled on. The difference between them was that if Draco caught pneumonia, it wouldn't matter; if Dumbledore did, the school would be concerned, instead of delighted.
"Mr. Malfoy." Dumbledore was as dignified as if he was testifying in front of a court, warm and dry. "I hereby give you permission to do what you wish with your life."
To put it mildly, Malfoy was . . . shocked. *What? What is he playing at? * He was stunned. Almost upset. *That damn bastard. _Giving_ me my life, like it was his to decide. Arrogant, stuck-up old man. *
"-The one requirement-"
*Don't you dare give me requirements. *
"-being that-"
*This should be good. *
And this with a hint of wry humor, "-you do not do it on my floors."
*Bloody bastard! He means it! *
"Now, this is hardly a death sentence."
*Oh, yeah? *
"I know that you are not highly pleased with your life. However, it would be well advised of you to . . . Oh, pack your things. Unless you wish to leave it to your . . . (faint distaste) associates. "
*Point. Crabbe and Goyle going through my things? There wouldn't be anything left when they finished. Bleech. *
"A suicide note is traditional-."
*And I am such a one for tradition, aren't I? *
"Yeah. Whatever. Great." With that, Malfoy hopped onto his broom and sped away. *I better go tell Madame Pomfrey to get some cold medicine ready and catch him with it, or she'll kill me. *
He had always been extraordinarily close with the herb-nurse; their friendship dated back to first time he had first tried to kill himself. She had told him a "bedtime story" about a small, ugly second-year girl who had tried to do the same thing and was barely saved.
The point of the story was that it never works.
He had gone to the library to check out a few incidentals he had caught from her story. That bloody book, Hogwarts, A History, turned out to be bloody useful, not that he would ever admit it. It turned out that Madame Pomfrey had been a second year at the only time that all of the details coincided. Minor things, like the stands had only seated two houses, instead of four, that that year the Ministry of Magic had had a renegade, and Dumbledore's beard was died blue. but overall, definite.
Draco had almost laughed when he saw the name of the author of the book. He knew from his father that the man had been a high-ranked Death Eater. He wondered if prissy Granger knew that.
"Ambush the Headmaster with cold medicine, Madame. It's damp out." That errand dispatched, he swooped back out into the hall.
After him an outraged voice called, "No brooms in the corridors, you blooming disaster!"
He chuckled. What language from a lady!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is no place to end it. But hey, the next chapter is in the works. I hope you like it.