Rubbing sleep from his tired eyes, Draco treaded quietly into the dining room. Grunting softly as a distant rumble shook the cracked windows, he scanned the room for any sign of movement. Upon recognizing the emptiness that, as of late, so often filled the barren room, he noted, "Looks like mother is off gallivanting around with her socialite ninnies again."
Not that he particularly cared, for he preferred to be alone. In the ten years of his life he could clearly remember, it had seemed that whenever she had taken time from her busy schedule to acknowledge him, it had been to nit-pick his very existence and remind him of the thousands of ways he could potentially screw up.
At least his father had entrusted Draco to make his own decisions, even if they were often forced with an iron fist. Though never truly allowed to act on his own behalf, Draco had come to find it was easier to obey his father than to argue. And so, for fifteen years Draco had been his father's puppet, quietly doing everything asked of him without question.
Only recently had he begun to truly challenge his father's wisdom. It had, after all, been this wisdom that had landed his father a permanent vacation in Azkaban prison. Though free from dominance of his father, Draco still felt uneasy going against his father's wishes. It would only take an uprising from the Dark Lord to set the Death-Eaters free and upon his father's return, Draco knew things would return to the way they had been his entire life.
Pulling the heavy wooden chair from under the head of the old table, he sat down, leaning back and propping his feet across the worn edge. Though he knew the punishment would be severe if he were to be caught in his father's seat of prominence, the current circumstances eased his fears, if only slightly.
It had been four months since his father had been imprisoned and still no word of an attempted or successful escape. And he would have been among the first to know. Even before The Daily Prophet could print the first word, Lucius would have contacted him, if not already returned to the manor.
Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander into deep contemplation as the weather outside continued to worsen. His thoughts strayed through his memories - from the first day he had met that awful Potter to even the last day he had spent at Hogwarts this past school year.
Even though he was the son of one of the most powerful Death-Eaters to swear allegiance to Voldemort, Draco could still remember the fear that had washed over him the last months of the Spring term… he could still feel it.
"Rap! Tap! Tap!'
Jarred suddenly from his thoughts, Draco sat straight up, his heart thudding loudly against his chest. Turning his gaze to the window, a flood of relief washed over him as he realized the sound had been made by the his owl, Egola.
Un-situating himself from the chair, he trod over to the window and opened it further. A grateful Egola hopped in through the opening and pecked his hand. As he reached for her leg, she began to groom her matted feathers with her raven colored beak. After unfastening the letter from her leg, he reached into the pocket of his robe and produced a small treat.
Egola snatched the treat hastily and retreated through the dining room to her perch. Slamming the window shut, Draco complained, "Honestly, why does Mother even bother to pretend she knows what she's doing? If she wanted to leave it open for the owl, she should have opened it wide enough! And if it wasn't for the owl, what the bloody hell was it for?"
Tearing away the string that bound the letter tightly, he smirked. The familiar envelope was addressed, "Draco Malfoy, Father's Chair, 8799 Ridgeway Ave, Leeds." Thinking aloud to the emptiness, he mused, "You know, it still amazes me how he knows where every bloody student is at every moment."
Ripping open the envelope, Draco began to scour over the supplies list he would be needing for his next year at Hogwarts: More books than he cared to know about, more vials, more this, more that…more, more, more. Tossing it aside, he sighed disappointedly - nothing new this year.
"Oh well," he thought, "at least mommy-dearest will realize I'm still alive when we go to Diago-" Trailing off, Draco's eyes lit up with a plan. "Hmm… unless I don't tell her and go about getting everything on my own. Surely she would never miss me and maybe this time I can actually say what I'd like to Potter…"
A slight shiver coursed through Draco's body at the mere thought of running into Potty and those sorry excuses for witches and wizards he called friends. Honestly! Someone with his potential should have been in Slytherin. "Just think of the great and terrible things we could have done together!"
As far as Draco was concerned, Potter was wasting his time trying to defeat the Dark Lord, for in his own heart he knew Voldemort's power lay predominantly in name alone and the constant fear spread among the wizarding world only gave Voldemort the authority needed to return. And Voldemort's return was the last thing Draco needed, for it would give his father full unadulterated domain over his every move, his every action, his every thought…
Draco knew that only time and Potter's defeat stood between Voldemort, and in turn his father, and the total control they so desired. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, Draco could feel the hunger for power coursing through his veins. Glancing at a large mirror that adorned the wall, Draco sighed. He could practically see his father staring back at him.
"No," he corrected himself, " I am nothing like father…"
Realizing that for the first time in his life, he had defied his father, Draco's eyes widened slightly, expecting one of his father's cohorts - the only reason fear still brewed in Draco's heart - to appear and put him in his place.
After several moments of tense silence, Draco let out a sharp gasp of air as a loud POP sounded behind him. Dropping his letter to the ground, Draco whipped around and found himself face to face with…
Not that he particularly cared, for he preferred to be alone. In the ten years of his life he could clearly remember, it had seemed that whenever she had taken time from her busy schedule to acknowledge him, it had been to nit-pick his very existence and remind him of the thousands of ways he could potentially screw up.
At least his father had entrusted Draco to make his own decisions, even if they were often forced with an iron fist. Though never truly allowed to act on his own behalf, Draco had come to find it was easier to obey his father than to argue. And so, for fifteen years Draco had been his father's puppet, quietly doing everything asked of him without question.
Only recently had he begun to truly challenge his father's wisdom. It had, after all, been this wisdom that had landed his father a permanent vacation in Azkaban prison. Though free from dominance of his father, Draco still felt uneasy going against his father's wishes. It would only take an uprising from the Dark Lord to set the Death-Eaters free and upon his father's return, Draco knew things would return to the way they had been his entire life.
Pulling the heavy wooden chair from under the head of the old table, he sat down, leaning back and propping his feet across the worn edge. Though he knew the punishment would be severe if he were to be caught in his father's seat of prominence, the current circumstances eased his fears, if only slightly.
It had been four months since his father had been imprisoned and still no word of an attempted or successful escape. And he would have been among the first to know. Even before The Daily Prophet could print the first word, Lucius would have contacted him, if not already returned to the manor.
Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander into deep contemplation as the weather outside continued to worsen. His thoughts strayed through his memories - from the first day he had met that awful Potter to even the last day he had spent at Hogwarts this past school year.
Even though he was the son of one of the most powerful Death-Eaters to swear allegiance to Voldemort, Draco could still remember the fear that had washed over him the last months of the Spring term… he could still feel it.
"Rap! Tap! Tap!'
Jarred suddenly from his thoughts, Draco sat straight up, his heart thudding loudly against his chest. Turning his gaze to the window, a flood of relief washed over him as he realized the sound had been made by the his owl, Egola.
Un-situating himself from the chair, he trod over to the window and opened it further. A grateful Egola hopped in through the opening and pecked his hand. As he reached for her leg, she began to groom her matted feathers with her raven colored beak. After unfastening the letter from her leg, he reached into the pocket of his robe and produced a small treat.
Egola snatched the treat hastily and retreated through the dining room to her perch. Slamming the window shut, Draco complained, "Honestly, why does Mother even bother to pretend she knows what she's doing? If she wanted to leave it open for the owl, she should have opened it wide enough! And if it wasn't for the owl, what the bloody hell was it for?"
Tearing away the string that bound the letter tightly, he smirked. The familiar envelope was addressed, "Draco Malfoy, Father's Chair, 8799 Ridgeway Ave, Leeds." Thinking aloud to the emptiness, he mused, "You know, it still amazes me how he knows where every bloody student is at every moment."
Ripping open the envelope, Draco began to scour over the supplies list he would be needing for his next year at Hogwarts: More books than he cared to know about, more vials, more this, more that…more, more, more. Tossing it aside, he sighed disappointedly - nothing new this year.
"Oh well," he thought, "at least mommy-dearest will realize I'm still alive when we go to Diago-" Trailing off, Draco's eyes lit up with a plan. "Hmm… unless I don't tell her and go about getting everything on my own. Surely she would never miss me and maybe this time I can actually say what I'd like to Potter…"
A slight shiver coursed through Draco's body at the mere thought of running into Potty and those sorry excuses for witches and wizards he called friends. Honestly! Someone with his potential should have been in Slytherin. "Just think of the great and terrible things we could have done together!"
As far as Draco was concerned, Potter was wasting his time trying to defeat the Dark Lord, for in his own heart he knew Voldemort's power lay predominantly in name alone and the constant fear spread among the wizarding world only gave Voldemort the authority needed to return. And Voldemort's return was the last thing Draco needed, for it would give his father full unadulterated domain over his every move, his every action, his every thought…
Draco knew that only time and Potter's defeat stood between Voldemort, and in turn his father, and the total control they so desired. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, Draco could feel the hunger for power coursing through his veins. Glancing at a large mirror that adorned the wall, Draco sighed. He could practically see his father staring back at him.
"No," he corrected himself, " I am nothing like father…"
Realizing that for the first time in his life, he had defied his father, Draco's eyes widened slightly, expecting one of his father's cohorts - the only reason fear still brewed in Draco's heart - to appear and put him in his place.
After several moments of tense silence, Draco let out a sharp gasp of air as a loud POP sounded behind him. Dropping his letter to the ground, Draco whipped around and found himself face to face with…