Disclaimer: I own Harry Potter about as much as I own a large mansion in Beverly Hills.
A/N: I want to thank you guys for giving me all this awesome feedback, it makes me feel all squishy inside. For the purposes of this story, I'm going to make Apparating the equivalent of driving (you learn it at about sixteen and a half, you have to take a test before you're allowed to do it legally), but not until later. And don't worry, classes are gonna get wicked hard for these two, in preparation for their N.E.W.T.s. There will eventually be a name for Draco's eagle owl. :D Thanks for answering my questions.
Now, I realize that this chapter is short, but it serves a dramatic purpose, okay, so don't come yelling at me for lack of text.
Oh, one more thing, about the bad dream: I wrote it in first person, and in present tense, mostly because I wanted the reader to feel as if it's happening to them. I realize I could've done it in second person, but that would've been a bit too drastic of a change for the purposes of this story. As it is, I feel I have to remind you that your own nightmares probably do *not* seem as scary to one who hasn't experienced them.
Enjoy the chapter!
*********
The room was dark and almost silent, except for the quiet breathing emanating from the figure on the bed.
~~A long, blackened corridor. It sounds wet. Fetid liquid drips down the walls on either side, and falls off the ceiling at random intervals. I stride forward, heels clicking and echoing wetly. The malodorous water drips into my hair, onto my clothes.
Ducking to the side suddenly, I press a piece of dampened wall that seems the same as the rest, and a huge, rectangular chunk of wall slides back and scrapes aside. I'm reminded vaguely of something from real life...real life...yes, this is a dream, but that's okay...
This is a chilly, brightly-lit room. I don't have to look back, but I know that there's no longer a damp corridor behind me. Damp corridor? Wherever did I get that idea? My mother is in front of me, sitting at the end of the longest table I've ever seen. I walk down to her, and somehow manage to pass the miles-long table in a few steps. Holding out a vial containing a blood-red but transparent liquid, she says, "You must have this--for me, for your father," and I know the liquid is poison. I speak without speaking and agree, and I tip back the vial, and follow its contents' burning path down my throat...
I fall and land in myself on a moonless night, in a heap on the forest floor. I don't move for a long time, but then I look up into my father's cold and angry eyes. Words come out of my mouth: "I just wanted--"~~
Draco awoke with a jerk, eyes opening wide for the almost-pitch black room. Taking a deep, sharp breath, he sat up in bed, and, breathing a deep sigh, rubbed his fingers across his eyes and temples. Another nightmare. And he'd thought he'd be rid of them once he got to Hogwarts...
What had this once been about? He'd forgotten already. Well, it wasn't worth remembering anyway, he thought bitterly.
His lower back was protesting to the lack of sleeping happening in the room, so he was about to lie back down and try and grab some rest when he caught a flash of light from his doorway. Instantly tense and alert, Draco searched the space near the doorway with his eyes. Ah! There it was again, and closer, and--
Oh. For a moment he'd forgotten he wasn't in his old room off the Slytherin common room. It was just his new roommate's cat, what was its name? _Why does its name matter now?_ he asked himself. _Go to sleep._ The cat's eyes flashed greenish-yellow one more time, and then the black shape was gone from his doorway. Draco lay down again.
As he drifted off to sleep, Draco thought about the brief conversation he'd had with the Head Girl. He'd almost wanted her to ask him how he got to be Head Boy...he'd have a helluva story to tell her...not that he'd ever actually tell her...
*********
Potions, History of Magic, and now Transfiguration. Draco heaved an inward sigh. School as usual. At least some things hadn't changed. McGonagall was telling them that, since their sixth year had been cut short, they'd be doing a great deal of makeup work. This prompted much of the class to groan, and complain that they'd have to send home for their old books. Draco didn't know why they were so surprised by now--it had been the same procedure in their previous two classes.
Looking around himself, Draco thought once again of how empty his classes seemed to be now. All the people he'd been buddy-buddy with in previous years seemed to be gone: Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini. He couldn't say he was sorry to see them gone.
He knew where they were, of course. After the raid on Hogwarts last year, their overprotective parents wouldn't have wanted to send them back. They'd probably been sent off to some place like Durmstrang or Beauxbatons, or were being homeschooled or something like that. That was okay, though--he'd be able to focus more readily on his schoolwork without quasi-friends like them around to bother him.
Speaking of schoolwork--Draco took down McGonagall's first assignment of the year with a sigh. He'd have to shut himself up in his room to finish an assignment like that in two days. Not that he was a stranger to shutting himself up in his room. Thinking back to his long year during the war, Draco recalled how surprised he'd been after awhile when there wasn't a worn spot in the carpet from his pacing. Day after day he'd spent, walking back and forth in his bedroom, eventually getting so dizzy he had to sit down, only to get up and pace again. He didn't know what his parents had assumed he was doing in there. They probably hadn't cared anyway, being too busy with their Death Eater friends.
_'Friends,'_ thought Draco scornfully. _Like those people could ever be friends to anyone._ They could turn on a 'friend' in an instant, and would, too, if it would serve them. Frankly, he was glad that he didn't have any 'friends' like that anymore. No one had made a move to 'befriend' him yet today, probably having heard about his betrayal during the war. Well, good riddance to them. He didn't need human company anyway. He could function like a little machine, an automaton, going from class to class to library to class.
He'd functioned like a machine at breakfast and dinner each day, he recollected. His father wouldn't always be there, but his mother almost always would, sitting down at the other end of the table, distractedly poking at her mashed potatoes. Food would go from his plate to his mouth automatically, and he'd chew and swallow in such an exacting and methodical way that he sometimes wondered if his parents saw him as a golem.
Apparently they did. That conversation with his mother after his father had gone to jail. As if he was just a facsimile of a person, to be ordered around, to be told that he should go spy on his classmates again. After speaking at his father's trial, no less. Like that was just a flaw in his programming, that he helped lock his father away for life.
_Was it what she was asking me to do or how she asked me to do it?_ he thought. What had made him blow up at her?
She'd told him to spy on people like him, people who held the same beliefs. She'd wanted him to pry into their lives and find a weak spot. To be heartless, thoughtless. Like she was. Uncaring of other people, of their privacy, of their *feelings.* She'd wanted *him* to go in and do *her* *dirty* *work,* wanted him to hide behind a mask of self-confidence and INSULT them, like he had gotten SO SICK of doing, wanted him to WORM his way into their HEARTS and STEAL THEIR DIGNITY AND HUMANITY! WELL, HE WAS GOING TO *TAKE* A *STAND,* GODAMMIT! HE WOULDN'T HURT ANY MORE PEOPLE! HE WOULDN'T REACH INTO THEIR CHESTS AND RIP OUT THEIR INSIDES AND SHOW IT TO THEM! AND HE CERTAINLY WOULDN'T DO THE CRUCIATUS CURSE ON HIS *OWN* *SON*! HE WOULDN'T, *he* *wouldn't,* _he wouldn't,_ he wouldn't...
*********
"I won't, I won't, I won't," Draco moaned quietly from the floor, curled up into himself. There was a soft touch to his shoulder, barely a graze of fingertips, and he jumped back, suddenly sitting upright, breathing hard, looking with an indiscernible but passionate expression into the face of...Professor McGonagall...
"Mr. Malfoy," she said gently. "I think you had better go see the Headmaster." Gulping, his breathing starting to slow, he focused his eyes on her hand, which held a hastily-penned note. Wordlessly, he took it very slowly from her, then, calming slightly, pushed himself off the floor. Dusting himself off, he uttered a quiet,
"Thank you," before shakily walking out the door of the classroom.
*********
A/N: Bet you didn't expect THAT, did you?! ::malicious laughter:: Now you see why I had to make the chapter shorter, don't you?
u-ne-korn: There'll be an explanation about the dormitory next chapter, since Draco's been wondering about it too (even if I haven't mentioned it).
Hermione will soon be stressing out about--not only her lack of friends due to the war--her experiences during the war. Next chapter, if I can get my muse to cooperate.
Next chapter: The meeting with Dumbledore, and Hermione goes to visit Hagrid.
A/N: I want to thank you guys for giving me all this awesome feedback, it makes me feel all squishy inside. For the purposes of this story, I'm going to make Apparating the equivalent of driving (you learn it at about sixteen and a half, you have to take a test before you're allowed to do it legally), but not until later. And don't worry, classes are gonna get wicked hard for these two, in preparation for their N.E.W.T.s. There will eventually be a name for Draco's eagle owl. :D Thanks for answering my questions.
Now, I realize that this chapter is short, but it serves a dramatic purpose, okay, so don't come yelling at me for lack of text.
Oh, one more thing, about the bad dream: I wrote it in first person, and in present tense, mostly because I wanted the reader to feel as if it's happening to them. I realize I could've done it in second person, but that would've been a bit too drastic of a change for the purposes of this story. As it is, I feel I have to remind you that your own nightmares probably do *not* seem as scary to one who hasn't experienced them.
Enjoy the chapter!
*********
The room was dark and almost silent, except for the quiet breathing emanating from the figure on the bed.
~~A long, blackened corridor. It sounds wet. Fetid liquid drips down the walls on either side, and falls off the ceiling at random intervals. I stride forward, heels clicking and echoing wetly. The malodorous water drips into my hair, onto my clothes.
Ducking to the side suddenly, I press a piece of dampened wall that seems the same as the rest, and a huge, rectangular chunk of wall slides back and scrapes aside. I'm reminded vaguely of something from real life...real life...yes, this is a dream, but that's okay...
This is a chilly, brightly-lit room. I don't have to look back, but I know that there's no longer a damp corridor behind me. Damp corridor? Wherever did I get that idea? My mother is in front of me, sitting at the end of the longest table I've ever seen. I walk down to her, and somehow manage to pass the miles-long table in a few steps. Holding out a vial containing a blood-red but transparent liquid, she says, "You must have this--for me, for your father," and I know the liquid is poison. I speak without speaking and agree, and I tip back the vial, and follow its contents' burning path down my throat...
I fall and land in myself on a moonless night, in a heap on the forest floor. I don't move for a long time, but then I look up into my father's cold and angry eyes. Words come out of my mouth: "I just wanted--"~~
Draco awoke with a jerk, eyes opening wide for the almost-pitch black room. Taking a deep, sharp breath, he sat up in bed, and, breathing a deep sigh, rubbed his fingers across his eyes and temples. Another nightmare. And he'd thought he'd be rid of them once he got to Hogwarts...
What had this once been about? He'd forgotten already. Well, it wasn't worth remembering anyway, he thought bitterly.
His lower back was protesting to the lack of sleeping happening in the room, so he was about to lie back down and try and grab some rest when he caught a flash of light from his doorway. Instantly tense and alert, Draco searched the space near the doorway with his eyes. Ah! There it was again, and closer, and--
Oh. For a moment he'd forgotten he wasn't in his old room off the Slytherin common room. It was just his new roommate's cat, what was its name? _Why does its name matter now?_ he asked himself. _Go to sleep._ The cat's eyes flashed greenish-yellow one more time, and then the black shape was gone from his doorway. Draco lay down again.
As he drifted off to sleep, Draco thought about the brief conversation he'd had with the Head Girl. He'd almost wanted her to ask him how he got to be Head Boy...he'd have a helluva story to tell her...not that he'd ever actually tell her...
*********
Potions, History of Magic, and now Transfiguration. Draco heaved an inward sigh. School as usual. At least some things hadn't changed. McGonagall was telling them that, since their sixth year had been cut short, they'd be doing a great deal of makeup work. This prompted much of the class to groan, and complain that they'd have to send home for their old books. Draco didn't know why they were so surprised by now--it had been the same procedure in their previous two classes.
Looking around himself, Draco thought once again of how empty his classes seemed to be now. All the people he'd been buddy-buddy with in previous years seemed to be gone: Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini. He couldn't say he was sorry to see them gone.
He knew where they were, of course. After the raid on Hogwarts last year, their overprotective parents wouldn't have wanted to send them back. They'd probably been sent off to some place like Durmstrang or Beauxbatons, or were being homeschooled or something like that. That was okay, though--he'd be able to focus more readily on his schoolwork without quasi-friends like them around to bother him.
Speaking of schoolwork--Draco took down McGonagall's first assignment of the year with a sigh. He'd have to shut himself up in his room to finish an assignment like that in two days. Not that he was a stranger to shutting himself up in his room. Thinking back to his long year during the war, Draco recalled how surprised he'd been after awhile when there wasn't a worn spot in the carpet from his pacing. Day after day he'd spent, walking back and forth in his bedroom, eventually getting so dizzy he had to sit down, only to get up and pace again. He didn't know what his parents had assumed he was doing in there. They probably hadn't cared anyway, being too busy with their Death Eater friends.
_'Friends,'_ thought Draco scornfully. _Like those people could ever be friends to anyone._ They could turn on a 'friend' in an instant, and would, too, if it would serve them. Frankly, he was glad that he didn't have any 'friends' like that anymore. No one had made a move to 'befriend' him yet today, probably having heard about his betrayal during the war. Well, good riddance to them. He didn't need human company anyway. He could function like a little machine, an automaton, going from class to class to library to class.
He'd functioned like a machine at breakfast and dinner each day, he recollected. His father wouldn't always be there, but his mother almost always would, sitting down at the other end of the table, distractedly poking at her mashed potatoes. Food would go from his plate to his mouth automatically, and he'd chew and swallow in such an exacting and methodical way that he sometimes wondered if his parents saw him as a golem.
Apparently they did. That conversation with his mother after his father had gone to jail. As if he was just a facsimile of a person, to be ordered around, to be told that he should go spy on his classmates again. After speaking at his father's trial, no less. Like that was just a flaw in his programming, that he helped lock his father away for life.
_Was it what she was asking me to do or how she asked me to do it?_ he thought. What had made him blow up at her?
She'd told him to spy on people like him, people who held the same beliefs. She'd wanted him to pry into their lives and find a weak spot. To be heartless, thoughtless. Like she was. Uncaring of other people, of their privacy, of their *feelings.* She'd wanted *him* to go in and do *her* *dirty* *work,* wanted him to hide behind a mask of self-confidence and INSULT them, like he had gotten SO SICK of doing, wanted him to WORM his way into their HEARTS and STEAL THEIR DIGNITY AND HUMANITY! WELL, HE WAS GOING TO *TAKE* A *STAND,* GODAMMIT! HE WOULDN'T HURT ANY MORE PEOPLE! HE WOULDN'T REACH INTO THEIR CHESTS AND RIP OUT THEIR INSIDES AND SHOW IT TO THEM! AND HE CERTAINLY WOULDN'T DO THE CRUCIATUS CURSE ON HIS *OWN* *SON*! HE WOULDN'T, *he* *wouldn't,* _he wouldn't,_ he wouldn't...
*********
"I won't, I won't, I won't," Draco moaned quietly from the floor, curled up into himself. There was a soft touch to his shoulder, barely a graze of fingertips, and he jumped back, suddenly sitting upright, breathing hard, looking with an indiscernible but passionate expression into the face of...Professor McGonagall...
"Mr. Malfoy," she said gently. "I think you had better go see the Headmaster." Gulping, his breathing starting to slow, he focused his eyes on her hand, which held a hastily-penned note. Wordlessly, he took it very slowly from her, then, calming slightly, pushed himself off the floor. Dusting himself off, he uttered a quiet,
"Thank you," before shakily walking out the door of the classroom.
*********
A/N: Bet you didn't expect THAT, did you?! ::malicious laughter:: Now you see why I had to make the chapter shorter, don't you?
u-ne-korn: There'll be an explanation about the dormitory next chapter, since Draco's been wondering about it too (even if I haven't mentioned it).
Hermione will soon be stressing out about--not only her lack of friends due to the war--her experiences during the war. Next chapter, if I can get my muse to cooperate.
Next chapter: The meeting with Dumbledore, and Hermione goes to visit Hagrid.