When Harry woke up that morning he couldn't keep a smile from blooming on his face. Aunt Petunia was beating on the door with what sounded like a wooden object, maybe a mop. . . And he was still smiling. It was raining outside, but Harry fancied he could see a golden splash of sunlight spilling into the room.
Today, he would be escaping from the Dursley's tender care once again. The threat of mass murderer Sirius Black had kept them mostly in line for a while now. But it was starting to fade. . . Dudley couldn't keep himself on the gold star list forever, Harry had known that. It started with nothing really, a spiteful pinch when no one was looking.
And it quickly became an all out war. Dudley did nothing in front of Vernon and Petunia. He left no blatant marks. He never even broke Harry's spectacles again. And if Harry dared to complain, well then, Harry was being too rough on the boy. Obviously, no Sirius Black was going to swoop down on the house and rain curses and pain just because sweet little Dudleykins defended himself, right? Sirius may be a crazy homicidal maniac (or so they thought) but he was hardly going to risk a lifetime in prison for a few little bruises, right?
Harry could hardly walk down the ugly khaki hallway without flinching, expecting that he would be tripped, or at the very least, jabbed in the ribs. He even had accidentally broken one of Aunt Petunia's vases. It had been new, very expensive, and uglier than the cat Dudley played barbershop with. The screaming had gone on for days. . .
It didn't take very long for Uncle Vernon to start a war of his own. There was nothing wrong with asking Harry to help out with a few measly chores right? A little labour would make the boy strong. He had always been a little on the puny and frail side, but that was probably just the way they pampered him, right?
And the diet was back on, in full force. Harry only got half of whatever it was Dudley was eating. Half and no more, after all, Harry was a much smaller boy than Dudley. Harry was fairly certain that Dudley was cheating somehow – how could anyone be on a diet for over a year and gain weight? Dudley was now roughly the size and poundage of a young elephant. Or so Harry thought.
But today. . . He didn't have to worry about anything.
Today, Hermione's parents would be picking him up and driving him to Diagon alley, where they could pick up their school supplies. Then Harry was invited to stay with the Grangers so they could leave early to catch the train at 9 and ¾.
And that was a thought that could make even Malfoy look good.
"I sure hope that you think you're going to get away without doing any work, around here, boy." Uncle Vernon started, as Harry slid into his place at the breakfast table. "I work hard, day and night to keep you in the lap of luxury, you have no complaints to speak of, and the very least you could do would be to show a little respect and maybe some honesty." He looked for a response.
Harry didn't say anything. He knew better than to start something on the very last day. And his Uncle knew it.
"Although, given your . . ." freakhood/weirdness/abnormality "unnaturalness, I suppose it's only to be expected." Vernon continued gleefully. "I will expect you to do something about the unseemly state of the floors in this house before you go. Goodness knows that me and your Aunt don't walk across them with grimy little feet. And the bathrooms. . . And Dudley's room. He is gracious enough to share with you; you can be gracious enough to help him clean things up."
Harry prevented himself from snorting. Dudley and sharing were kind of like coconuts and Quidditch – you never heard them mentioned in the same sentence. "What about packing?" Harry asked hopefully. Maybe they would give him an hour off to collect his worthless junk / perversions that took up so much space, and cluttered the household.
"Its already on the porch." Uncle Vernon smiled. Can't you see what nice people we are?
It was already on the porch. Most of the stuff from Hogwarts had never even been unpacked, just locked in the cupboard under the stairs. And his clothes were tossed in a black garbage bag beside his trunk.
~,~'~,~'~{@
Draco Malfoy was being quiet. Alone, small in the large room, lost among the shelves and books and statues of exquisite taste. Today, he had run out of excuses. There was no way left for him to justify himself. He could not plead that others had unfair advantages, that people were too stupid, or . . . At this point nothing he did or said mattered. He couldn't even blame it on Harry Potter. His father was going to beat him anyway.
His mother had retreated into her chambers. She was going to stay there the rest of the day. Because if she didn't see it, then it didn't happen. She had her own pools and lakes of guilt and shame. She didn't need to swim in his. His dishonour was his own to bear. And truthfully, Draco preferred in that way.
He had headed down to the library early that day, feeling a change in the tide that ebbed and flowed within the mansion. The very atmosphere was charged. The house elves walked carefully, as though wading through dark waters, smelling the scent of lightning in the air.
The library was overpowering. Clean, upright bookshelves dividing the room, making it into a maze of knowledge. He was not allowed to touch any of the darker books – he was too stupid, too slow witted, too. . . And curiosity had only bested him once. Once was enough.
His father had found him there, curled in a red silk and satin chair, tucked in the corner under a reading-globe. Between the History and Charm sections. The chair was warm but he felt so cold.
"I'm very pleased to see that you are at least making an effort with your schoolwork, Draco." His father's form was silvered in the darkness; his blond hair reflected the dim light. "It's really too bad that you are such an abysmal failure. Even a Mudblood can best you."
Draco didn't say a word, choking, gasping, behind a carefully cultivated mask of indifference.
"It's a sorry state that the long line of the Malfoy is reduced to this, shivering pile of. . . I should have kept a better eye on your mother, I suppose, this is my fault. Your mother and I should have never married. It was obvious even back then, she was little better than an expensive whore."
Draco blinked twice.
"This is exactly why proper parentage and bloodlines are so important. Because without them, we end up with morons and idiots like you. Everything is in the blood, Draco. Blood tells. And yours is tainted. I know more intelligent pond scum."
Only two more days until school began, Malfoy thought. And there's a thought that can make even Potter look good.
Draco didn't look towards his father or mother as he graciously said his good-byes. There was surprising sincerity there. He could almost hear the little boy that lived within him, maybe when I'm finished school, things will be better. Draco wanted to crush that little boy, splatter his blood and break his bones. There were four bruises burning him underneath his robes – fingerprints on his arm. Reminders. The others had been healed, with a wand that left welts to fade under the moonlight.
He passed through the cars of the train, looking for Crabbe and Goyle. They were a sanctuary of sorts. They were his faith. Far too dimwitted to betray him, strong enough to protect him. No, they're not. Yes, they are. If they couldn't, then no one could.
Wrong car. Potter and his friends were there, laughing and joking, filling the car with their warmth, and the depth of their affection startled him. It was silent as they realized who had walked in. At least silence he could understand. "Sorry, just passing through. No intention of sitting to chit with you losers. Hell, you couldn't even pay me to stay long enough to look at you."
Before he could say another word, he continued through the car.
The group bristled, and sat on the edge of their seats, and could only stare at the empty spot Malfoy had occupied.
"That was weird." Harry said.
"That was Malfoy." Ron snorted. "Did you expect him to act like a human being?"
