Through the Dragon's Eyes
A story in four parts
ANTI-LAWYER HEX: I solemnly swear that I do not own the Harry Potter characters, that I am only borrowing them from J.K. Rowling for my own heinous experiments and that I fully intend to return them to her, more or less intact, when I have finished. Lawyerus explodi!
ONE
"Harry Potter? Yeah, I knew him," the man at the bar growled, setting his mug with a dull clunk on the wooden counter before us. He chuckled mirthlessly. "Who didn't? Only person ever to survive an attack by Voldemort." He lapsed into silence, eyeing the drink in his mug with distaste.
I found myself wondering if my tip had been less than reliable. Certainly, the unshaven man before me hardly looked like he came from one of the most prestigious wizarding families in the world: his long, pale blonde hair, though well-groomed, seemed limp and lifeless; his green eyes were dull and weary-looking. He might have once been proud and handsome but time, worry, and drink had worn away at his fine features, leaving only a shadow of their former selves. He had been hunched over the counter, nursing his drink when I introduced myself to him, and had not yet looked me full in the eye. He was obviously a man with a story, but was it the story I wanted? How could it be? How could this man be the same person I had been endeavoring to find for the last two weeks?
We sat for a moment in silence while I considered my course of action. I could leave--go home and verbally thrash my informant for giving me bad information--or I could stay on the off-chance that for once he had been correct and this shell of a man was the person for whom I had been searching. I decided to pursue the latter course; if nothing else, this fellow, whoever he was, might provide some previously-unknown insight into my story, and my deadline was still a few days off. I could afford to waste a little time.
"Did you ever meet Harry in person?" I asked.
My companion turned to look at me curiously, giving me a better look at his lined face and the shadows underneath his eyes. There was definitely a hint of someone noble there, unless the dim lighting of the tavern was playing tricks with my eyes.
"Who did you say you were?"
"Gabriel Freely, of The Wizard Wire. From America."
He grunted and returned to his drink. "A reporter. Thought you people had given up on me."
"It's been twenty-five years," I told him, "and we wanted to do...sort of an anniversary piece. I heard that you were with him when he..."
"Never mind," the man said, placing a few coins on the counter and standing up. "I don't care who you work for; I don't want to talk about it." He walked away, toward the door.
So far, so good, I thought. He was certainly reacting like someone who had witnessed the most explosive event to happen to wizardkind in ages. I followed him, pressing my case. "Please, I just want to know what happened."
"Ask someone else," he snapped, reaching for the handle.
"There is nobody else," I pointed out. "You're the last survivor."
He turned and fixed me with an angry stare, one hand still on the door handle. "You think this is surviving?" he asked, glaring around at the dirty tavern. "This is a slow death, Mr. Freely. This is where those of us who are too cowardly to kill ourselves outright go to rot."
"Why should you want to die?" I asked, intrigued by the man's simple eloquence and convinced my informant had been correct. I only had to draw him out, get him to speak, and I would have my story. "Mr. Malfoy, we still don't know everything that happened that night," I told him. "You could help to fill in those gaps. You could help make certain that the real story is told."
"Not interested," Malfoy replied, opening the door, letting the cool night air enter the smoky room.
"I need your help," I tried again. "I want to silence people like Rita Skeeter--"
"Don't even mention that woman's name!" Malfoy roared, turning to face me. All other conversations in the dusty room stopped, as the denizens of the establishment turned to stare at us in astonishment. "You don't know," he continued, jabbing a quivering finger at me, his voice trembling, "you can never know what it was like that night! Any of you!" he added, glaring at the onlookers.
"Unless you tell us," I replied in a reasonable tone.
"No!" he snapped, but I could see his defenses were crumbling. He honestly wanted the truth to be told; all I had to do was convince him I could cause that to happen, but carefully--one wrong word and I would lose my story forever.
"All right," I said, holding my hands out placatingly. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I'll leave." We faced each other for a long moment, with the onlookers watching curiously as Malfoy made up his mind.
Finally, he sighed and said, "No. Maybe you're right." He looked at me sharply. "You'll have to leave your Quick-Quotes Quill behind."
"No problem," I said with a smile. "I don't use one."
Malfoy looked doubtfully at me. "Never met a journalist yet that didn't," he said.
"I don't like quills and parchment," I admitted. "They seem so old-fashioned. I've got"--I pulled a digital voice recorder from my coat pocket--"something that works just as well. It's a tool common among Muggle journalists, actually--it's completely non-magical. It can only record our actual conversation, which is more than I can say for the famous Quick-Quotes Quill."
Malfoy nodded once. "Come on, then," he said, stepping through the door and into the night.
"What, outside?" I asked. I was hoping for a more comfortable venue in which to interview him; the night air felt chilly as it blew through the open doorway.
"You want everyone to overhear your story?"
"No," I said hastily, following him into the chilly night. "No, I don't." We walked along the dirt path that lead through the center of the village. The shop windows were dark, the shopkeepers at home in a warm bed. I shivered slightly, pulling my coat more tightly about me.
"Tell me about Harry," I said after we'd walked for a while in silence, our shoes crunching in the darkness. "How you first met him. Hang on a second," I added, starting the voice recorder up. "Okay, go ahead."
"Well, I knew of him long before I actually met him face to face," Malfoy began. "It seemed like all my parents could ever talk about: how Voldemort had been vanquished by 'the Potter boy,' how Dumbledore'd whisked him away someplace before the Death Eaters could lay their hands on him. You know the story, how he was placed with his Muggle relatives, though at the time no one knew that's where he was. Wasn't until later that we found out." He paused, looking up into the night sky, his breath hanging in a misty vapor in front of his face.
"My father hated him, of course, just as he'd hated James and Lily, though I never could figure out why." He grunted. "Of course, I never tried to understand, either. I wanted to be just like my father. You know how it is, or maybe you don't, but when a boy's young, he thinks his father is the greatest man on earth. And there's nothing he wants more than to be like him, to be approved by him. Only my father wasn't exactly known for his affection. But that didn't stop me from trying. I imitated him, his mannerisms, his bearing, his prejudices..." He trailed off, sighing heavily. "I only realize this now, you understand."
I nodded. "Go on."
To an outsider, Malfoy Manor was every bit as imposing as its lord and lady. Surrounded by a high stone wall, with a black iron gate at one entrance on which the Malfoy family crest was emblazoned, it resembled nothing if not an impenetrable fortress; and indeed, there were various charms and enchantments placed upon both the wall and the grounds to ensure the Malfoys would never have to entertain an uninvited guest. Some of these were harmless, designed to discourage entry or cloak the manor house from view; but many of them, like the Expelling Enchantment, were more violent.
The grounds themselves were immaculate and well-kept. Nowhere was a single leaf or blossom out of place; the hedges and trees were trimmed and unnaturally square, the grass short and edged perfectly along the stone walk leading up to the enormous porch. Even the ivy winding its way up the gigantic pillars supporting the roof over the porch was evenly spaced, as if it did not dare to grow wild. Clearly, the Malfoys could afford the upkeep on their estate.
Draco Malfoy noticed none of this, however, as he wandered the grounds, his two companions huffing and puffing behind him. As one accustomed to the finer things, he simply took it for granted that it was and always would be a perfect yard.
He paused and pretended to examine one of the unnatural trees while Crabbe and Goyle bent over behind him, panting
heavily. In truth, he enjoyed seeing them waddle around the yard, desperately trying to keep up with him, gasping and wheezing the entire time but too dim to question why they were going in circles or why they needed to accompany him at all. Actually, he had a good reason this time; he didn't trust them to be alone in the same room with his birthday cake.
"Lovely day for a walk, isn't it?" Draco said maliciously, tearing one of the leaves from the tree, causing it to squeal.
Neither of his companions responded. Draco pulled another leaf from the tree. "Maybe we should go running later." He did not have to turn around to know Crabbe and Goyle were exchanging looks of consternation. "Or for a swim. What do you think?" he asked, pulling another leaf down and turning to face them. The tree squealed louder.
Before either of his companions could voice their objections, Draco's mother called from the porch, "Draco, are you picking on the trees again?" He crumpled the leaves in his hand and let them fall to the ground.
"No!" he shouted, stepping away from the tree. "Just going for a walk."
"Leave the trees alone," Narcissa Malfoy said. "I won't have you making a mess of the gardener's work."
"Yes, mother," Draco replied sourly. "Let's go," he snapped at his companions, who, looking very dispirited, trudged after him toward the porch where his mother stood.
Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy was a chillingly beautiful woman, slender and tall, with blonde hair and pale skin, and blue-grey eyes like the ocean frosted over. Her full, pink lips were compressed into a thin line as she watched her son mount the stairs, followed by his overweight entourage.
"The guests are arriving," she told him. "Go wash up. You too," she added, glancing meaningfully at the disheveled and sweaty Crabbe and Goyle.
"When's father coming home?" Draco asked.
"Soon," she replied shortly, ushering them through the large entrance into the foyer. A large marble staircase, surmounted by an iron rail, took up one side of the entryway, and Draco had a sudden malevolent inspiration.
"You'll have to use the washroom upstairs," he told Crabbe and Goyle. "I'll be using the one down here." His companions looked at him with dismay. "Well?" he demanded impatiently. "You heard my mother. Go wash up."
Reluctantly, the two began to clamber up the wide stairs, stopping every so often to catch their breath. Draco snickered and left them to their workout.
Three doorways opened off of the foyer; one of these was the coatroom, another led to the drawing room, and the last led to the enormous banquet hall and the kitchen beyond. Draco entered the banquet hall, noting with satisfaction the large amount of gifts already piled high on one end of the long, polished wooden table that stood in the center of the room. Vast paintings adorned the high walls on either side of the table, interspersed between large, slitted windows through which shafts of sunlight entered the hall. Four highly-polished suits of armor stood at attention in each corner, and an enormous, splendidly-wrought gold chandelier was suspended on a golden chain from over the exact center of the room, the light from one thousand everlasting candles casting a yellow glow that reflected from the table, the suits of armor, and the marble floor. Embedded in the middle of the wall on Draco's left was a gigantic fireplace, where the house elf, Slobby or Grubby or whatever its name was--Draco merely called it "Elf"--was stoking the fire.
As he passed it, one of the suits of armor saluted him creakily, but Draco ignored it, intent on the house elf, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He meant to "accidentally" nudge the elf into the flames, but his mother, who had been waiting for him near the doorway on the far wall, hands on her hips, shot him such a cold look that he reconsidered.
"Torment your little friends if you must," she said as he approached her, "but leave the elf alone. Unless you want to start doing chores? I thought not." She pointed through the doorway. "Hurry up."
Draco hurried through the door into the hall beyond. The washroom was on the right, and he entered the spacious room. A large stone basin was fixed to one wall, underneath a stone spigot carved in the shape of a ferocious dragon with emeralds for eyes. Water spurted from the dragon's open mouth as he approached, splashing into the basin below and Draco washed quickly, dashing water on his face and checking his appearance in the large mirror mounted above the dragon's head. He thought he looked quite handsome and properly impressive, with his pale, pointed face, startling green eyes and white-blonde hair, which had been slicked back. He grinned cheekily at his reflection, shaking the water from his hands.
"Finished," he said, holding his palms above the dragon's snout, which obediently stopped spurting water and began to pour forth hot air from each nostril. At the same time, the water in the basin simply vanished, as if it had never been there. Checking his appearance one last time, Draco exited the washroom and sauntered back into the banquet hall, where a few children were already milling about.
"Better," his mother said, gazing at him appraisingly as he entered. "Go greet your guests."
Draco sighed; the last thing he wanted to do was make small talk with a bunch of boring children but he could not be impolite, either. His mother had impressed that on him very early: always be polite to people of your station when in their presence.
He made his way down the length of the table, where the various children were gathered, looking around at their resplendent surroundings, some of them with awe clearly evident on their faces. These would be the poorer ones, Draco thought, the ones who could only afford the smaller, less magnificent manor houses, though they were not so poor as to go entirely unnoticed by his family. Draco resolved to ignore them and concentrate on the families who were nearly as wealthy as his own, such as the Parkinsons. He had only made it halfway across the room, however, before a large tawny owl soared through one of the high windows, which had opened to admit it. It fluttered down onto the back of the chair next to Draco, a yellow envelope clamped firmly in its beak. With some surprise, Draco saw his name, written in ruby red lettering on the outside of the envelope, and reached for it. The owl hooted, dropping the letter into his outstretched hand before taking flight again.
"Who's it from, Draco?" asked Pansy Parkinson, skipping over to him, her elaborately-curled hair bouncing.
"I don't know," Draco answered, staring at his name on the front of the envelope. He wondered who would be writing to him until he turned the envelope over and saw the crimson Durmstrang seal.
"I've never seen that coat of arms before," Pansy said, gazing curiously at it. "Who does it belong to?"
"Durmstrang," Draco said, tearing open the envelope. "It'll be my acceptance letter," he added confidently, pulling out two sheafs of parchment. Sure enough, on the first sheet was written:
The
DURMSTRANG INSTITUTE
Headmaster: Nikolai Rasputin
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Warlock Extraordinaire)
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
Congratulations on your acceptance at the Durmstrang Institute. You have become one of a long line of distinguished witches and wizards who were proud to call Dumrstrang their home. Please find enclosed a list of the books and equipment you will be required to obtain.
Term begins on September 1. We await your answering owl by no later than July 31. As space is limitied, failure to reply will result in forfeiture of your position. Should you have any questions, please contact our administrative office.
Yours sincerely,
Igor Karkaroff,
Assistant Headmaster
The second page contained a list of the supplies he would need. Draco carelessly stuffed the papers back into the envelope, glancing at Pansy who was staring at him inquisitively.
"Your parents aren't sending you to Hogwarts?" she asked.
"No," Draco snorted disdainfully, "what with Dumbledore's policy of accepting anyone. Father wanted a more exclusive school."
"Oh," Pansy said, looking crestfallen. "My parents are sending me to Hogwarts."
Draco laughed. "My parents are little more discerning in these matters." Catching her sharp look out of the corner of his eye, he added hastily, "Not that your parents aren't. Perhaps they don't know that Durmstrang is an option. It normally isn't for students who live as far south as we do, but with the right amount of money, I'm sure they'd accept you, too."
Pansy seemed to consider this. "Maybe I can get my parents to send me," she said thoughtfully.
"Worth a try," Draco said. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "My father says they teach you the Dark Arts as a practical tool, rather than simply showing you how to protect yourself."
"Really?" Pansy breathed, her eyes wide. "I want to go!"
"Talk to your parents," Draco said with a smirk. "Bully them into sending you."
"I will," Pansy promised.
Mrs. Malfoy reentered the room at that point, behind a very large, many-layered floating birthday cake, which she nudged along with a wave of her wand. There were "oohs" from the various children surrounding the table, particularly from Crabbe and Goyle, who had only just returned from their adventures on the staircase, and who gazed, entranced, at the confection as it settled slowly onto the polished surface of the table. Ten candles were arranged in a circle on the top layer of the cake, ranging in color from jade green to bloodred, with a solitary eleventh candle, its flame burning black as night, in the center. The house elf trotted behind her, balancing several china plates in one hand while the other clutched forks and napkins.
"Excuse me," Draco said to Pansy, walking to the head of the table. "I just got my acceptance letter from Durmstrang," he announced triumphantly to his mother as he approached.
"Good," she answered briskly. "Gather around!" she called to the children at the other end of the room. "It's time for cake!"
Crabbe and Goyle arrived with remarkable speed, considering their size, followed by the other children. Draco frowned; someone was missing.
"Where's father?" he asked. "Isn't he coming?"
"No," his mother replied. "I just finished talking to him. He was delayed at the Ministry."
Draco felt a pang of disappointment that started in his chest and began to spread throughout his body. He tried to fight it back but only had limited success. "Oh," was all he could manage to say.
Suddenly, it didn't matter that he'd been accepted at the school his father wanted him to attend, or that it was his birthday--nothing mattered except that Lucius Malfoy was not there. He looked around at the smiling, expectant faces of his peers, people he hardly knew anyway, and he hated them for being happy. He wanted to strike the smiles from their faces, to shout at them that they had no business feeling that way when he was completely miserable, but he held his tongue. It would not do to embarass himself or his mother in front of their guests.
"Ready to blow out the candles?" Mrs. Malfoy said, seemingly oblivious to how her news had hurt her son. "On three. One...two..."
Draco heaved a heavy sigh and blew on the candles, whose flames, rather than extinguishing themselves, emitted beams of colored light that richocheted off the walls, the floor, the portraits (much to the dissatisfaction of their subjects), even one of the suits of armor before coalescing into flickering, multi-hued letters that hung above the cake, spelling out, "Happy Birthday, Draco." The other children clapped appreciatively, but Draco barely noticed.
"All right, everyone queue up," Mrs. Malfoy said, conjuring a long knife from thin air. "The birthday boy first, boys," she added, as Crabbe and Goyle had shoved their way to the front of the queue. She took a plate from the house elf and loaded a large piece of cake onto it, handing it to Draco, who accepted it with a forced smile; he felt he would as soon eat the cake as the house elf. Why hadn't his father come? What could be so important at the Ministry that he would miss his son's eleventh birthday, the day that a normal witch or wizard was accepted at one of the wizarding schools?
But then, he thought bitterly, seating himself at the table, that was always the way. How many of his birthdays had Lucius Malfoy actually been present for? He could only think of three, and those were his first three. After that, Draco was lucky if his father's head made a brief appearance in the fireplace to wish him well. He stared glumly at his piece of cake, on which an azure blue candle still burned, as Pansy Parkinson sat next to him.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said shortly.
"If you say so," she said, cutting into the cake with her fork. She glanced scornfully at Crabbe and Goyle, who were already heading back up to the front of the table for seconds. "Why do you hang around with those two, anyway?"
"Who should I be hanging out with?" Draco replied disdainfully. "You? Think I want to hang around with someone who'll have the stench of Mudbloods all over her?" He didn't mean to be so terrible, but he couldn't help it; the disappointment he felt had given way to anger. Anger at his father, who never wanted to be around him. In fact, Crabbe and Goyle were probably the only people who did want to hang around, and that thought hurt, too.
Pansy froze, shocked, the cake halfway to her mouth. "N-no--I was just--"
"Never mind," Draco snapped, throwing his fork onto the table with a steely clatter and standing up. He felt ashamed, but he shunted the feeling aside as he stormed away, leaving Pansy in tears. Good, he thought angrily, she deserves it, stupid girl, asking stupid questions. But he could not entirely shake the guilt from his conscience.
After that, the whole party was a disaster. His mother cornered him, demanding an explanation for his disgraceful behavior, Pansy Parkinson was inconsolable and her parents had to take her home, and the rest of his guests looked uneasy and talked in hushed voices among themselves. Draco stubbornly held onto his fury, refusing to apologize or to acknowledge his feelings of remorse. Finally, Mrs. Malfoy was forced to call an end to the festivities, apologizing profusely.
"We have several fireplaces you can use," she told the children. "Dobby, show the children to the sitting room first." The children filed out, following the house elf; all except Crabbe and Goyle, who were busy loading their plates with as much cake as they could carry.
"Wait until your father hears about this!" Mrs. Malfoy seethed, rounding on her son as his two overlarge companions edged out of the room, clutching their plates tightly.
"I hope he does!" Draco shot back. It was all Lucius Malfoy's fault; if the man had only deigned to attend his son's birthday party for once, things would have happened differently. "Are we through?"
"For the time being," Mrs. Malfoy replied, scowling icily. "Go to your room."
With an angry huff, Draco turned on his heel and stormed out into the foyer. Crabbe and Goyle looked up, startled, from where they were sitting cross-legged on the floor, their faces covered with cake and frosting, empty plates in front of them. He ignored them, stomping up the marble stairs to his room, and slamming the door behind him.
Lucius Malfoy did not return until late in the evening. Draco awoke to the sound of the front door closing and the house elf saying obsequiously, "Does master want Dobby to take his cloak?"
"Here," his father's bored, drawling voice said from downstairs, "and mind you don't wrinkle it this time."
Draco blinked and sat up groggily, wiping his mouth. He had evidently fallen asleep after throwing himself onto his bed earlier; the black sheets and bedspread were in disarray and single lock of pale blonde hair hung loosely in front his face. He brushed it away and stood up, stretching, tensing as he heard his mother's low voice conversing with his father's below. He strained to hear, but they were talking too quietly for him to make out any words. As it was, he knew his mother was reporting the events of the afternoon to his father, who would undoubtedly be along to talk to him.
Draco stumbled over to the full-length mirror that stood in one corner of his room, checking his reflection to ensure that he was presentable. His father always chided him for even the slightest imperfection in his appearance, and his flyaway hair and wrinkled clothing, side-effects of sleep, would definitely earn him the elder Malfoy's reproof. He ran his hands through his hair, attempting to smooth it, but it only made his hair stand on end, causing his reflection to snicker.
"Oh, be quiet," he told it, irritably.
"You're going to catch it now," his reflection said. "Acting the way you've done."
"I don't recall asking your opinion," Draco snapped, turning away.
"Poor ickle Draco, he misses his daddy."
"Shut up!" Draco shouted fiercely, turning back to the mirror with one fist raised.
"Uh-uh," his reflection said, wagging a forefinger at him. "Seven years' bad luck, if you do."
"That's just superstition," Draco said, but he lowered his arm anyway, though his fist remained tightly clenched.
"Only one way to find out," said the mirror. Suddenly, his reflection grinned malevolently, glancing at the door to his bedroom. "Uh-oh, guess who's coming?"
Draco froze as the door opened and his father walked in. He hadn't even heard him come up the stairs. Lucius Malfoy regarded his son with a disapproving air, one eyebrow arched inquisitively. Draco let his hand fall to his side, turning to face his father but unable to look him in the eye.
"Temper, Draco," his father murmured reprovingly.
"Yes, father," Draco replied.
"Your mother tells me your temper's been getting the better of you lately. Is this true?"
"Yes, sir." There was no point in trying to cover it up; his father would see right through any such attempt.
"I should think you would know better than to embarass yourself and your mother so," Mr. Malfoy continued. "You are a Malfoy, Draco; a gentleman, and you are obliged to act like one. Never forget that."
"Yes, father," Draco mumbled again, feeling his cheeks flush as his father's words stirred up the shame he refused to feel earlier.
"Look at me," his father commanded. "Stand up straight." Draco did as he was told, forcing himself to stare directly into his father's icy gaze. "You will offer your most abject apologies to Ms. Parkinson and her family," Mr. Malfoy continued, "and, in the future, you will keep your temper in check. Have I made myself clear?"
Draco nodded mutely.
"Good," his father replied. "I expect to hear from Nathaniel Parkinson that you have reconciled with his daughter." He cast an appraising glance at his son's dishevled hair and clothing. "And I do hope you intend to clean up before you come to supper. You may have acted like a commoner earlier, but there is no need to look like one." He turned to go. "Your mother and I will expect you at the table in ten minutes," he said, closing the door behind him.
Draco sniffed as the door shut, brushing away the hot tears that had welled up in his eyes, indicators of the anger and humiliation and sorrow churning within him. His father hadn't even mentioned his birthday.