Path Revealed By Moonlight

Author's Notes: Oh Wow, sorry I was so excited about finished my first chapter that I forgot to add in notes and the disclaimer crap! :-[ runs into corner, cowering madly and screaming "PLEASE DON'T SUE ME!!!" Yeah...ahem. Well just in case you haven't figured it out from the first chapter, this is a Draco/Luna fic, a continuation of The Thestral, The Witch, and The Moonstone, and takes place simultaneously with Whatever Comes shit, sorry! I just realized I spelled "Whatever" wrong in my first chapter! SORRY SORRY! I was just too excited! =(. Please review if you read! The speediness of my next chapter depends on how many reviews I get...because if I feel like no one is reading my story, that discourages me from writing, so PLEASE REVIEW! -Jess

Much appreciation to Queriusole, LunaMagic, Caitlin and Luna Midnight for reviewing, I love you both to bits!!!! (pouncehugglez my reviewers)

Queriusole- Yes, the moonstone is going to become a pretty important object in the story! =D

LunaMagic- Thanks! BTW love your pen name...Luna rocks! I hope to finish chapters regularly...so I'm going to keep my fingers crossed that I don't get writer's block! I hope you like how it's going to turn out!

Caitlin- Ahh I love that he can't stop thinking about her too guilty grin (major DM/LL shipper) hehe thanks! It's harder than I thought...trying to write her in-character...thanks so much...your priase means the WORLD to me! I hope you keep reading!

Luna Midnight- =D Thanks! I'm going to really try to update regularly!

Disclaimer: DOUBLE!!! (for Chapter 1 too) Harry Potter and his fellow wizards and his world do not belong to me. They are all JKR's. Propz to that amazing woman, btw =)

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Chapter Two- A Most Unwelcome Visitor

Sunlight poured into the bedroom as Draco's house-elf pulled the drapes open the next morning. Waking with a start, Draco rubbed his eyes, realizing that he had fallen asleep while he was thinking the night before. He glanced down at the moonstone that was still sitting in his hand and quickly stuck it back under his shirt. Yawning, he squinted down at the house-elf (dressed in a piece of green bed sheet tied like a toga) that was placing his freshly washed robe at the foot of his bed. "It's summer holiday. What the blazes are you waking me up this early for?" Draco grumbled irritably. Perhaps he should not have stayed up so long thinking about that witch- "Wait, why am I thinking of her again now?" Draco quickly pushed all thoughts of the school loon out of his mind as he grabbed his robe. He told himself sternly, "You've got plenty of things better to do than think of that weirdo. Like Quidditch, and that shitload of homework your fool professors gave you."

His house-elf bobbed his head apologetically, his big ears flapping as he bowed. "So sorry sir," he squeaked, looking up at his young master. "But the Mistress tells Trumpy to wake you up at eight o'clock sharp, and Trumpy does as he is told, sir."

Draco rolled his eyes and jumped off his bed. "Whatever, a guy can't get any sleep around here, get out of my way." Trumpy moved aside as Draco grabbed his bathrobe and put it on over his white T-shirt and green plaid boxers. He strolled into his bathroom and shut the door in Trumpy's face, who had tried to follow him. Draco frowned as he opened the door again and stuck his head out to glare down at the house-elf. "What the hell. You already started my bath...what, do you want to watch me bathe too?"

Trumpy's large brown eyes widened in surprise. "No, no, master has mistaken old Trumpy," he protested. "Trumpy just wants to give young master message from the Mistress."

Draco sighed. "What is it then? Hurry up, I don't have all day."

"The Mistress wants young Mr. Malfoy to meet her in the drawing room at nine o' clock sharp."

Draco fidgeted. "Did she say what it's about?" He asked, running a hand nervously through his blonde hair that fell loosely around his face.

Trumpy shook his head quickly, his eyes wide. "No, no, Trumpy does not know what the Mistress has to tell you, sir."

Draco shrugged and huffed impatiently, "Well you've given me the message...can I go wash now? Or maybe you'd like to stick around and let me get some target practice for hexes..."

Trumpy backed away quickly, "No, no, Trumpy will go now...that is...unless Master would like to practice on Trumpy, then Trumpy does as he is told."

Rolling his eyes, Draco snapped, "No, of course not, you're too short for target practice, idiot. Bring me up some breakfast when I'm done bathing." He slammed the door shut and turned on the tap to brush his teeth.

Behind his door, he heard Trumpy squeak, "Yes, Trumpy will do immediately!"

Draco shoved his toothbrush in his mouth, pointed his wand at it, and muttered "Scourgify dentus." His toothbrush immediately began brushing his teeth, and he sighed and stared at his reflection. Cold steel gray eyes stared back at him on a pale and slightly pointy (but not as pointed as it was before, he had grown quite a bit) face, and his ice-blonde hair cascaded onto his face. "Not bad," he had to think to himself. His mother used to tell him how he would grow up into a handsome ice prince, and he used to gag in disgust at the very prospect, but he could see that despite his coldness, he really wasn't all that bad looking. He'd be a major heartthrob at school if it weren't for the fact that everyone hated him. Draco shrugged and rinsed him mouth. "As if I'd want a swarm of Mudbloods chasing me anyway," he grumbled, wiping his mouth. He walked over to his large bathtub, though not as large as the Prefect's bath at Hogwarts, and saw in satisfaction that Trumpy had not forgotten to add in the fragrant purple bubbles. Draco glared at nothing in particular as he threw off his shirt and boxers, and stepped into the tub, the moonstone pendant still hanging around his neck. As he sank into the bath, he felt his tense muscles relax from the comforting heat and he laid his head back. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear off all the memories, thoughts, worries, and though he would never admit it, fears that had been invading his mind since he left Hogwarts just a week earlier.

Draco felt his body burn in fury at the very thought of how people attempted to torment him about his father being sent to Azkaban. They thought they had him pegged down so well...as if they knew everything about him. His fist tightened around the bar of soap, "They don't know shit about me," he thought savagely, squashing the soap into a pulp.

"What are you gonna do now, Malfoy, now that you don't have your daddy around to coddle you, baby ferret?" Some Ravenclaw had snickered.

Draco dropped his head back against the marble tub in anger. "They don't know shit. As if Father would ever coddle me." It was bloody infuriating, really, the thought of returning to school with a fraction of the school feeling sorry for him and the majority of it laughing in triumph at his "misfortune." A Malfoy could never stand such humiliation. "Heh," he thought to himself. "And Father thought ME to be the one to tarnish the family name." He stared at a violet bubble that was floating to the ceiling. "While he's the one getting carted off to Azkaban," he watched it pop against the ceiling. He smirked his trademark smirk that no one had seen in a while to himself, "And that, wizards and witches, is what you call irony." His smirk faded. It wasn't funny.

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Draco stepped back into his bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He glanced at his reflection in his bureau mirror, and wiped his pale, thin but cut torso.

"Sexy..." His mirror whistled at him.

Despite the fact that he had grown up with the mirrors talking to him, he still felt weirded out by it. "Quidditch did some good after all...even though I never beat fucking Potter," he observed detachedly. For some reason, these days he felt beyond caring about Potter and his rivalry. Seeing as how he'd always come up short, he supposed he was just starting to accept losing. Draco rubbed the towel against his hair, thinking savagely, "Father would curse me into oblivion if he heard me talking like that." But of course, Lucius couldn't anything but cries of insanity in his cell at Azkaban.

He walked over to the tray Trumpy had set up on his bed (Draco noticed Trumpy had already replaced his sheets with fresh ones) and grabbed a scone. He sighed deeply and sat down on his bed in a dignified manner (after all, Malfoys do NOT flop themselves onto furniture). "Crap," he muttered, glancing at his antique clock, bordered with platinum serpents, that was hanging next to his window. It was already quarter till nine. Pulling on his silver satin boxers, Draco wondered vaguely what his mother could want to talk to him about. He stepped into a pair of black jeans and buckled his belt, reminding himself that Mother often met with him in the formal drawing room to discuss matters with him. He didn't have any reason to be worried. "And yet," he thought to himself as he buttoned up his light gray shirt, "I just feel like something's going on." Something bad.

Shaking his head, Draco put on his thin light gray robes (it was summer after all) and walked out of his room. "Stop being daft, you bloody moron," he hissed to himself. "What else could possibly go wrong?" The foreboding feeling still refused to fade.

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Draco stopped outside the drawing room to collect himself. After all, just because his father was in Azkaban didn't mean he should show signs of weakness in front of his mother. Never mind that Draco lacked true respect for Lucius, other than the respect a son must have for his father, he was still a Malfoy after all. Setting his face in an inscrutable manner, he knocked and briskly entered the drawing room. He walked over to his mother, who was seated at her usual chair in a very queen-like manner, and nodded in greeting, "Mother."

"Good morning, Draco." Narcissa Malfoy eyed her son, looking him up and down like she did every morning when he was at home. Usually, she would nod in approval, signifying that he was groomed and dressed properly, but today she frowned slightly. "You didn't slick your hair," she observed.

"Damn," Draco thought. He knew he had forgotten something. "Just great, Draco," he thought to himself. "Now's the PERFECT time for you to start losing a grip on things." He acted quickly in an effort to salvage his "Malfoy-ness." He answered aloud, "Does it offend you, Mother?" He put on an apologetic tone, "I apologize, I was just planning on practicing some Quidditch later, and I prefer not having it slicked back while I am flying." He hoped she'd buy it.

Narcissa's face was unreadable, the epitome of the Malfoy demeanor. "Well, I am rather partial to you when you have your hair slicked back," she answered calmly. "You remind me of your father." Inwardly, Draco reminded himself never to slick his hair again. Narcissa continued, "and given our current circumstances, you are, for now, the man of Malfoy Manor." Her ice-blue eyes glazed over as she took in the sight of her son.

Draco was about to answer when he heard an obvious snort of laughter. He turned and saw his aunt Bellatrix sitting in the armchair at the corner of the room. He hadn't noticed her when he entered the room. Her dark eyes glinted in malice and were lined with deep ebony makeup. She shook her long raven hair out of her face haughtily. In spite of himself, he could not suppress a glare in her direction. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to stay calm. "Aunt Bella," he greeted her coolly.

Bellatrix Lestrange returned his icy look. She smirked and looked him up and down as if he were a six-foot slug. She wrinkled her nose and smirked again. She tossed her hair again and commented harshly, "Sister dear, your son hardly looks the part of the Master of the Manor."

Draco did not blush in embarrassment, however, he did cross his arms and jutted his chin out defensively. "And with all due respect, Aunt Bellatrix, I hardly think you are qualified to judge who is capable of being the master in MY home."

Bellatrix studied the teen in distaste. "Narcissa, I believe your son is a twit of a boy, and I will ENJOY forcing him into shape for his entrance."

Narcissa answered softly but firmly, "I'll not have you harming my son, Bella."

Bellatrix smirked unreassuringly. "No worries, Cissa, Ickle Dracikins will be just fine by the time I'm through with him."

Narcissa pushed an invisible strand of hair back in place into her neat French twist. "I trust Draco is in good hands, then."

"Always," Bellatrix crooned in her horribly shrill and ominous voice. She batted her eyes innocently at her nephew.

Draco scowled. "What the fuck are they talking about?" He thought in his head. Aloud, however, he asked "Excuse me, but seeing as how I am the subject of your discussion, I feel I have a right to know what the bloo-what you two are talking about." He paused, and looked accusingly at his mother. "What do you mean, SHE'S going to be in charge of me?"

Narcissa opened her primly glossed lips but Bellatrix put reached out and put a hand on her arm reassuringly. "Let me explain it to him, Cissa dear," she said. "After all, he's going to have to get used to listening to me, aren't you, Dracikins?"

Draco gritted his teeth. "First things first. My name is Draco, and you will do well to use it." Bellatrix's eyes gleamed in spite. "And second of all," he continued, changing his mind about maintaining his usual air of respect. "What. The. Hell. Are. You. Talking. About."

Narcissa's eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth to chide her son for swearing, but Bellatrix shushed her again. "No worries, Narcissa," she said in what seemed like a deadly calm tone. She turned to Draco. "You, Draco Malfoy," she practically spat his last name, "are a miserable excuse for one in my master's service." She stood up and glared down at him, surprisingly, since she was a head shorter than he. "You are weak, and ignorant, just like your father." Draco shot a look at his mother, who didn't even flinch. Bellatrix continued. "Narcissa tells me that Lucius promised you to the Dark Lord when you should reach the age of sixteen years." She eyed him disdainfully. "And quite frankly," she continued, staring him down, "you are nowhere near ready to serve him." She glowered at him and spoke even softer, deadlier. "Your father should have started training you a long time again. Since he failed to, it has befallen upon myself. The Dark Lord expects your powers behind him, and it has been asked of me," she glanced at her sister, "to prepare you for your future." She smirked at looked him up and down again. "Because if you take the Mark now, boy, I can assure you that you will be one of the first on our side to fall, seeing as how you are such a pathetic excuse for a Sorcerer." She sat back down and leaned back in her seat, throwing him a self-satisfied smirk that she had put him in his place.

Draco felt his throat go dry. He had known this was coming. After all, it was just during the Christmas Holidays that his father had informed him that the initiation ceremony should take place when he turned sixteen. So why did this come as such a shock to him? "Because you hoped it wouldn't happen," he told himself nastily. But that was a fool talking. He knew he would be taking the Dark Mark soon. It was his fate as a Malfoy, after all. But...to be trained by this psychotic excuse for a witch? He glared back at his aunt, who was now inspecting her shiny black fingernails. "Why does it have to be you to train me?" He asked sullenly.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes but continued to smirk. "And who, Drakey," she cooed sarcastically, "who else did you have in mind?" She reveled in his look of realization. "Your daddy's in jail, Ickle Drakey," she taunted. At this Narcissa rose from her seat gracefully, and nodding at her sister and son, excused herself and swept out of the room. Draco cursed her silently for leaving him with this demented woman. Bellatrix's eyes twinkled in glee. She stood and walked closer to Draco. "And your Mummy's in no state to train you in the Darkest Arts," she continued, raising a hand to his face. Draco fought the urge to flinch at her touch. She ran her long index nail down his cheek. "Don't be afraid, Drakey," she said quietly. "After all...I won't kill you." She smirked and as her finger neared his chin, she suddenly dug her nail into his skin. Draco flinched at this, but refused to back away as her nail drew blood. She smirked evilly and withdrew her finger, and ran it against her tongue (Draco forced down a gag), relishing the taste of his blood. She leaned in and whispered in his ear, "You're no good to the Dark Lord dead."

Smacking her lips, she brushed off her silk black robes and glided to the door. Without turning around, she called back in a creepily seductive tone, "Till nine o' clock tonight, Drakey." She opened the door. "See you in Dungeons." She turned and winked at him, "Don't keep me waiting, love."

Draco stood still, ignoring the trickle of blood still oozing from his chin.

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