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!
TWO
"Sorry," my companion said. "I've been rambling a bit. You wanted to know about Harry Potter."
"It's all right," I told him, waving one hand dismissively. It was true, I did want to know about this man's relationship to Harry Potter, and specifically about the night it all ended, but the night was young, and somehow I just couldn't bear to interrupt. I checked my voice recorder. "We still have two hours to cover everything."
"I'm not sure if that'll be enough," Mr. Malfoy said dryly. "I can go on and on." He shook his head ruefully. "Too much to try and express, and it all wants to come out at once."
He began to walk again, and I followed, grateful to be moving; the night air felt like it was chilling my insides. There was no moon overhead to illuminate the narrow track as it wound through the village, and I stumbled occasionally on an unseen rock or depression in the ground. Finally we arrived at the outskirts of town, opposite the tavern where we began, nearly an hour before.
"This is it," he told me, gesturing at the simple, two-story building before us. "Home." He said this with some distaste, as if "home" meant quite a different thing to him than the word implied. "It's not much."
He pushed on the rough wooden door, holding it for me as I entered. A narrow wooden staircase took up one half of the entryway, lit only by a single yellow candle, radiating a ghostly yellow light, which was mounted on the wall above the stairs. The left side of the entry rapidly fell into darkness, preventing me from seeing what lay beyond.
My companion nodded toward the steps. "Upstairs."
We ascended the wooden stairs, our footsteps seeming unnaturally loud in the gloomy silence. The building had a must odor which became more pronounced as we reached the top. A tattered, moldy-looking carpet stretched down the hall before us, receding into shadow at the far end. Spaced evenly on each side of the hall were six or seven doors, with a candle mounted to one side. In the dim light, I could faintly make out the glint of tarnished numbers on each.
"Number twenty-six," Malfoy grunted, taking the lead. We traveled halfway down the hall toward a door on the left-hand side. Malfoy dug into his pockets, withdrawing what appeared to be a rusty skeleton key. "It's an old building," he explained, turning the key in the lock. The door swung open on its hinges, creaking loudly. "After you."
Not without some trepidation, I entered the apartment of Draco Malfoy. The room, for that's all it was, was sparse in its appointments. A kitchenette was on one wall, and a door on the opposite wall led to the washroom. In the middle of it all was a simple wooden bed, on which a frayed bedspread had been arranged. A crude wooden chair provided the only other furnishing.
"I know," he said, catching my barely concealed amazement as he turned to close the door. "A long way to fall, isn't it?"
"How?" I asked delicately. "What happened to your inheritance?"
"My inheritance?" Malfoy repeated, walking over to the bed and collapsing onto it. "Have a seat," he said, pointing to the chair.
"It turns out my 'inheritance' was the Malfoy family name and that's about all," he continued as I sat down. "My relatives saw fit to brand me as a Death Eater after Voldemort was destroyed, and the families of the Dark Lord's victims sued for reparations. By the time they were through with me, this"--he waved one hand over himself--"was all I had." He sighed. "They even confiscated my wand."
"You weren't a Death Eather, then?" I asked, leaning forward. The rumors that had flown after Voldemort's end had definitely implicated Draco Malfoy; helped along, in part, by Rita Skeeter.
"No. My father was, but I paid for it," he replied, a trace of bitterness in his voice. In a lot of ways, I'm paying for everything my father did."
I felt a stirring of sympathy in me and quickly squashed it. He's just a story, I reminded myself. Just a means to end. But I couldn't quite shake the feeling, so I decided to change the subject before it got any worse. "Tell me about the day you met Harry Potter."
July passed uneventfully, with but two exceptions. Draco mumbled his apology to Pansy Parkinson, very red in the face, and to his suprise, she readily accepted it.
"I forgive you," she told him loftily. "I know you didn't mean it. And anyway, it was a silly thing to ask; I mean, you won't be associating with those two Neanderthals when you get to Durmstrang, will you? My parents are still sending me to Hogwarts, though," she confessed mournfully. "Mother doesn't like the idea of my being too far away. Durmstrang is awfully far off. Father told me that as long as I'm placed in Slytherin house, I won't have to associate too much with the lower sort of individuals."
Her statement set Draco's thoughts in motion. Until now, Durmstrang had always been a vague idea in his head, but the beginning of term was rapidly approaching. He had never considered how far away the school might be, and it suddenly became important for him to find out.
"How far away?" he demanded, trying to keep the uncertainty from his voice.
"Well, no one really knows," Pansy replied authoritatively. "It's Unplottable, and you can only get there on the school ship. It's rather like Hogwarts; I hear you have to ride a train to get there."
His parents were of equally as little help.
"I don't know, somewhere north," she answered him when he asked where the school was, waving her hand vaguely and sipping at her tea. "Your father has been there."
"Its location is secret," Lucius Malfoy told him coolly. "An elite wizarding school could hardly be located where just anyone could find it."
"Is it very far away?" Draco asked, attempting to keep his voice level, to keep the panic from it. The truth was, Draco had never been very far from home, and Durmstrang was beginning to sound as remote as the moon. Maybe that's what it is, he thought wildly, maybe it's a flying ship.
"Far enough to prevent the likes of Dumbledore's students from gaining entrance," his father replied slowly, his slate gray eyes boring into his son's. "Surely you would prefer to be among pureblood wizards, Draco? To be taught by the finest minds wizardkind has to offer, rather than by a Muggle-loving fool who is willing to group pureblooded wizards and half-breeds together, as if they were equals?"
"Of course," he agreed, frowning and trying to sound offended at the very thought of Mudbloods, but he didn't come across as very convincing, and his father stared at him speculatively, unblinking, for what felt like forever.
"Good," he drawled at length, turning away. "Then the matter is settled."
But it was far from settled in Draco's mind; it haunted him vigorously over the next few days. Although he didn't want to admit it, he was afraid to be so far away from everything he knew for such a long a time, even if he was allowed to come home during the holidays. His nightmares were filled with visions of coming home to find the house deserted, or a different family living there, and no way of finding his parents. He woke up night after night, rigid with fear, and the lack of sleep, coupled with his anxiety, caused him to become surly and ill-tempered. Even the house elf avoided him; but this was also because Draco aimed a kick in its direction whenever he passed.
As the last week of July arrived, Draco finally screwed up his courage. "I want to go to Hogwarts," he announced imperiously to his father, who was seated in a leather armchair in the drawing room, reading the morning Prophet.
"I believe it was decided that you were attending Durmstrang," Lucius Malfoy said quietly, without looking up from the newspaper.
"I know, it's just--mother," he said, seizing on an idea. "I don't want her to have to worry about my being so far away."
His father lowered the paper to gaze at him balefully. "Your mother has voiced no such concern to me."
"Have you asked?" Draco demanded, praying that he hadn't.
"No," Mr. Malfoy admitted, "but I wonder if this sudden concern for your mother's well-being does not spring from another source." The paper rustled as he folded it and set it on his lap, his full attention now reserved soley for his son.
"All of my friends are going to Hogwarts," Draco pointed out, hoping to deflect his father's suspicions.
"Oh, yes," Mr. Malfoy sneered, "Crabbe and Goyle. The fact that they were accepted at Hogwarts is evidence enough of Dumbledore's inability to discern who is worthy of education. Half-wits and half-breeds all under one roof." He shook his head. "Have you no higher ambition than to associate with the dregs of humanity, Draco?"
"Supposing I was placed in Slytherin," Draco inquired nervously. His father was not budging and distant Durmstrang loomed closer with every passing day. "You were in Slytherin--they're more exclusive, aren't they?"
"Salazar Slytherin's noble house and vision have suffered somewhat since then, particularly under Dumbledore's rule."
Draco mentally cursed Dumbledore and his policies, which had made father so intractable. "But you're on the board of governors, can't you stop him?"
"My position on the board is not enough to entirely prevent the degradation of Slytherin's ideals." His father paused, looking thoughtful. "However, if my own son was to attend, and was subjected to some of Dumbledore's more...unconventional ideas, it might provide me with the leverage I need to curtail some of Dumbledore's...creativity." He smiled thinly.
Draco stood stock still, hardly daring to hope that his father had changed his mind, or that he was actually going to rely on him to help bring Dumbledore into line.
"Very well," the elder Malfoy said slowly, after further consideration, staring hard at his son. "If you attend Hogwarts, I expect you to demonstrate your superior heritage."
"I will," Draco promised, almost sagging with the sudden relief coursing through him, at the same time feeling more buoyant than he had in a month. He would not be sent away after all.
"You may find it difficult," his father warned him. "Hogwarts has become the bastion of the lower sort of wizard. You will need to remain above that."
"I can handle it, father. Maybe we can find a way to get Dumbledore sacked," Draco added hopefully.
"Perhaps," Lucius Malfoy murmured. "That will depend on you."
Thus, little more than a month before term began, Draco Malfoy was formally admitted to Hogwarts. His father made the necessary arrangements, utilizing his influence at the school, and by the last day of July everything had been arranged. The family departed late that morning for Diagon Alley, to obtain the last of Draco's school supplies.
Draco had been to Diagon Alley before, and he hated it. Narrow and crooked, it had always been crowded whenever he visited, and today was no exception. His father, a haughty expression on his face, moved swiftly through the throng, followed by Draco and his mother. Occasionally, Lucius Malfoy would nudge the odd startled witch or wizard to one side with the end of his walking stick, leaving them spluttering in outrage as the trio passed. Draco smirked and kept his eyes open for a broom shop. If he played his cards right, maybe he could get his parents to buy him a racing broom this time.
"You'll want proper robes first," his mother said, directing his gaze toward their destination: a small shop over which hung a sign reading "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions." A single glass window in the front of the building displayed two dummies, one dressed in black velvet robes; the other wore robes made of a radiant white satin that glowed with a pale silver light, like moonlight. A garland of white blossoms was arranged decoratively on top of the second dummy's featureless head. A small sign affixed to the bottom of the glass bore the words "July Wedding Specials--Last Day to Claim Unbelievable Savings!"
A bell jingled in the back of the shop as they entered. Various racks containing robes of all imaginable colors were arranged around the front half of the store. The back half was devoted to a large fitting area, complete with three mirrors and three footstools, and a small door through which an older witch, barely taller than Draco and dressed entirely in mauve, now bustled.
"Morning!" the witch greeted them brightly, walking briskly up to the trio. "Here for the lad's school robes? We've some nice ones for sale over there," she said, indicating one rack with an outstretched hand. "We can custom-fit them for a nominal fee."
"Price is of no import," his father replied coldly.
"Ah, I might have known, Mr. Malfoy. Let me have a look at you," she said to Draco, taking his hand and pulling him forward. "Mm," she said thoughtfully as she spun him around twice, "I think black would be your best color." She looked inquiringly at his father, who nodded once.
"Paisley!" the mauve witch called, and another short, gray-haired witch appeared from the small doorway, dressed in bright colors, and hastened over to where the party stood. "Get him fitted, would you? There's a dear," she said, ushering Draco over to the second witch, who took his hand and led him toward the back of the shop. The first witch turned back to Draco's parents. "Is there anything else we can do for you?"
"No," his mother answered. "Give me your list of supplies, Draco."
Draco disentangled himself from the paisley witch and hurried over to his father, drawing a piece of parchment from the pocket of his shirt.
"Your father can buy your schoolbooks next door," said his mother, taking and unfolding the parchment. "The only other item you still need is a wand."
"Ollivander's is close by," the mauve witch said helpfully.
His mother nodded. "I know. I'll see to that."
"What about a broom?" Draco asked hopefully as his parents turned to leave.
"First years at Hogwarts are forbidden brooms," his father called over his shoulder. "The same rule does not apply to students of other schools."
"Well," said the mauve witch as his parents departed. "Shall we get started?"
Scowling, Draco allowed himself to be led to the back of the shop where the witch named Paisley was waiting for him. He had not known about the restriction, but it sounded like something Dumbledore would dream up. Why shouldn't first years have their own brooms? he thought angrily, as Paisley helped him up onto the footstool. Probably because the Mudblood students couldn't fly and they didn't want them to feel left out. Just another reason Mudbloods were deficient, if they didn't even know how to fly a broom. His thoughts were cut off as Paisley shucked a black robe over his head, plunging him into momentary darkness.
"There we are," she said around a mouthful of pins as Draco's head reappeared. She began pinning the robe in various places while Draco continued to fume.
He was still frowning slightly when another boy entered the shop a few minutes later, though his thoughts had turned from anger at being denied a broom to consideration of how he might sneak one in anyway, provided he could convince his parents to buy him one. Consequently, he paid little attention to the boy, who stood uncertainly in the doorway until the mauve witch approached him.
"Hogwarts, dear? Got the lot here--another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."
As the first witch escorted the newcomer to the second footstool, Draco gave him a brief glance, wondering idly if he was a pureblood or not; his father was able to tell at first glance. The boy was dressed strangely, in odd clothes that were too large for him and hung loosely from his thin frame. He had black hair that hung down untidily over his forehead, and glasses that had been broken and repaired with what looked like spellotape. Whatever else the new boy was, he was clearly not rich.
"Hello," Draco said with chilly politeness as the dark-haired boy stepped up onto the footstool beside him. "Hogwarts, too?"
The other boy nodded as the mauve witch slipped a dark blue robe over his head. "Yes."
They had a conversation, after a fashion, over the next ten minutes or so. Draco was paying little attention, having returned to musing about the best way to slip a broomstick into Hogwarts unnoticed. Consequently, when a horrible, hairy giant of man appeared suddenly at the window, Draco was so startled that he backed right into a pin the paisley witch was inserting into the back of his robe.
"Careful!" she admonished, reseating the pin.
Draco shot a nasty look at her, then turned back to the window where the giant madman was gesturing happily at the other boy with two ice cream cones. What could have posessed him to show his face here? The hairy oaf seemed intent on gaining his companion's attention.
Draco glanced curiously at the dark haired boy, who was determinedly avoiding his gaze. "Look at that man," he said, nodding toward the window.
The other boy looked up and Draco saw his face light with recognition. "That's Hagrid. He works at Hogwarts."
Draco recognized the name from a story Lucius Malfoy had recounted at supper few nights prior. Hagrid was a servant who lived on the Hogwarts grounds, and, according to Draco's father, he was a great bumbling brute, prohibited from performing magic because he was unable to control the results. His father had told them, his every word dripping with disdain, of how the hairy half-wit had, after a few drinks, attempted a simple cleaning spell and set fire to his bed instead, nearly burning down the hovel in which he lived. Naturally, his father had attempted to have the blundering buffoon sacked, but Dumbledore was adamant in his refusal to do so. Draco agreed with his father; the man looked every bit the enormous oaf his father made him out to be, and then some. The fact that he seemed to know the dark haired boy next to him was strange, though--surely the two weren't acquaintances?
It turned out they were. During the last few minutes of their conversation, in which Draco ascertained that the other boy not only knew the hairy giant but liked him, Draco's opinion of his companion was, if possible, lowered even more. As far as Draco was concerned, no self-respecting pureblooded wizard--for that's what the boy claimed to be, having a witch and a wizard for parents--would be seen associating with a savage such as now stood outside, happily devouring one of the ice cream cones.
Finally, the mauve witch was finished. "That's you done, my dear," she said, helping the dark haired boy wriggle out of the pinned-up robe. He jumped down from his footstool, relief evident on his face, and made for the brute outside, without even bothering to say good-bye.
"I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," Draco called after him. In truth, he very much doubted it, unless the boy was somehow placed in Slytherin. He hoped not; Salazar Slytherin would probably return from his grave if such a thing occurred. For the last few minutes, he amused himself with visions of following a corpselike Slytherin through the halls of Hogwarts, watching as he jinxed students from the other houses, who fled left and right, scrambling to escape their fate. For some reason, though, the dark haired boy always ended up vanquishing the Slytherin zombie, no matter how times Draco replayed the scenario in his mind and he frowned.
"That'll do, lad," the paisley witch said at last, interrupting Draco's thoughts and helping him slip out of the black robes. "We'll have these done up by this afternoon."
Draco nodded at her and took a minute to smooth his hair in the mirror before leaping lightly to the ground. His mother was waiting for him as he left the shop, blinking in the bright sunlight.
"Mr. Ollivander and I have reached an agreement on your wand," his mother told him as they made their way through the crowd to Flourish and Blotts next door. "You have only to try it, but I believe it suits you. There are quite a few students out purchasing school supplies today," she observed as Draco caught up with her, having been pushed out of the way by a pair of older red-headed children.
He shot a dark look over his shoulder and said, "Yeah. There was one in the robe shop."
"Oh?"
Draco shrugged as they entered the bookstore. "Just a common boy," he said carelessly as his eyes fell on a miniature model of a racing broom. "Nobody worth knowing. Let's look at brooms after this." He nudged the tiny broom with one finger, completely forgetting about the dark haired boy as it soared over his outstretched arm and began circling his head.