The Difference of Twenty-One, from Seven
By
Aeriel Ravenna
Rated: G
Summary: This is Draco's life from a naïve seven, to mellow twenty-one, in four-year intervals. Can he get over his bias?
A / N : I don't know where this came from. I had just finished chapter 8 of my other story, when it leapt upon me. Before, I had the ending differently too, but this ending snuck up on me! Well, enjoy, and I'm sorry if its unrealistic or choppy or whatev.
Draco Malfoy was seven years old, and he was not a baby, thank you very much. He told this to anyone he saw, and generally it was accepted, especially by his father. His father had always grinned and told him that no, of course not, he was a big boy who made daddy proud.
Which was why it came as such a shock to find that he was being denied something because he was 'too young.'
"Da-ddy! I wanna see the Muggle!" he had whined, stamping a small foot. His father was no longer grinning now. In fact, he was scowling and he didn't look so handsome and brave anymore, either.
"No, Draco, no, you can't see the Muggle! If I've told you once, I've told you a million times! You're too—bloody—young!"
"Now, now, dear, no need for that kind of language," cut in Narcissa gently. She scooped Draco into her arms.
"Aw, Maaa, I'm a big boy now, you can't carry me!" he said, pouting. He laughed at his expression and his eyes darkened. "Put me down! You're a big meanie! I wanna see the Mu-ggle!"
He was shrieking now, which was a very bad thing to do, but he was past caring. Lucius rubbed his head furiously.
"'Cissa, you deal with the child. Igor is coming for tea and then we will deal with the Muggle. Keep Draco out of the way." He said and left.
"Oh, honey," Narcissa breathed into her son's hair. "You should trust daddy when he says that you aren't old enough,"
"But, Maaa, I'm seven! And I still haven't seen a Muggle! Greg's seen three and he's four months younger than me!"
"Honey, I told you, it's better off this way," said Narcissa, smoothing her son's hair. "Now, go put on your cloak and I'll take you to Pansy's,"
"Aw, but she's no fun! She's a girl! Plus, she smells funny," he whispered conspiratorially. Narcissa chuckled and tousled her son's freshly-smoothed locks.
- - Four Years Later
"Mom, is that one?" asked Draco, wide eyed, as he pointed to a picture of an alien on an advertising poster. Narcissa laughed, not unkindly.
"No, dear. Look, right there, that's one," she said, pointing to a man in a business suit out the window of the carriage.
"Well, his clothes are funny enough," said Draco suspiciously. "But Mom, shouldn't he have some tentacles or something? He looks kind of—"he lowered his voice so that his Father, in the front seat, could not hear him, "normal,"
"Well, dear, they are 'normal,' except they don't have any magic whatsoever. And they don't have magical animals, like our Crup back home,"
"Well, that's weird, I guess," said Draco doubtfully. Just then the carriage stopped in front of King's Cross. Draco quickly set his face in the 'haughty mask' he was used to. His mother silently sighed. He faced the public with a falsely worldly, arrogant façade that was only lifted around his mother. Now he even faced Lucius with it on. Narcissa feared it would become etched into the lines of his face, that he would become the mask…
Her thoughts occupied her as she donned her equally believable 'docile wife' mask. It was only when Draco was whining for them to leave, and Lucius had agreed, that she spoke. Bending down to Draco, she whispered, "Be mommy's good little boy. And don't forget yourself." And then she was gone.
Draco milled through the crowd of people, looking for someone he recognized. He saw a few people he knew, but didn't like very much—Vincent Crabbe, Hannah Abbot, Pansy Parkinson, Ernie Macmillan. He searched the crowd for Gregory Goyle or Blaise Zabini.
He was so immersed in his search that he accidentally bumped into a bushy brown haired girl with slight buckteeth. Draco didn't like girls very much, ever since he had met Pansy, but he thought she looked kind of nice. Her hair was weird, and her teeth, unfortunate, but she looked 'nice' all the same.
"Sorry," he offered slightly so that no one would overhear. The girl smiled shakily, as if overwhelmed.
"It's okay. I'm Hermione Granger," she said. She stuck out a hand but Draco didn't notice. He was looking at her, open-mouthed.
"You're—you're muggle-born, aren't you?" he said, shocked. She nodded tentatively. "I've never met one before. Do you—live with Muggles?"
"Yeah," she said softly, looking away. He was fascinated, but then he spotted Gregory Goyle, who he always had to look good in front of. With him was Vincent Crabbe, who Draco thought was a nasty piece of work.
He sneered at Hermione Granger, who looked taken aback. "Living with stinking Muggles," he said. She bristled but he continued. "How pathetic," he said, and was gone.
- -Four Years Later
Draco leaned back, trying to hide how raptly he was listening to the teacher. She was talking about electricity. Draco was fascinated by Muggles and Muggle Studies.
He had grown up learning about them second hand from his Father, who had said they were monsters. Then, having seen them for himself for the first time four years ago, he discovered them to be outwardly normal, save for their clothes and lack of magic, of course.
He had assumed that his father was right, but that they were inwardly different. They had the souls of beasts, didn't they? And they were pure evil filth?
Now, in Muggle Studies, the teacher was explaining that they were inwardly the same. Draco was confused. She was a professor, but he was his father. Who should he believe?
His mother would say his teacher, but Mother (Ma and Mom had been replaced by the more formal title) was always a bit soft when it came to Muggles. His father always said so, rather derisively, when he was angry at Narcissa. Draco loved his mother, but respected his Father.
Draco was a very confused boy—teenager, youth, young man. He knew confusion didn't suit his features so he acted like nothing had changed.
However, it had, minutely perhaps, but it was the first treacherous crack that would soon threaten all that he believed in. And, like a sculptor with a favorite piece of marble, he kept on chipping away at the statue, kept pretending not to notice the imperfections, until the fissure was upon him and the sculpture was halved.
He blew a long stream of air in frustration. It ruffled the bushy brown curls of the girl sitting in front of him.
- - Four Years Later
Draco was in shock. Well, in a way. He had sort of seen it coming, of course, but he has pushed away his fears.
His one true love, Brenna, was muggle-born.
He could have guessed, from the way he never met her parents at parties and the way the old pureblood women frowned when they heard her last name, as if they couldn't quite place it. The way her house was a mansion, but he had noticed, with shock, that there were badly hidden electrical sockets. The way that he couldn't trace her, no matter how far he looked on the Family Tree.
He had pretended, of course, not to see the signs. But the fact remained and now she had spoken it out loud and ruined the world for him.
For not only was she muggle-born, which he could deal with—for her, anything for her. No, she also had to go and become lesbian. And fall in love with none other than Pansy Parkinson.
Her thick-wristed olive hand patted his back awkwardly, her brown waves swept onto his shoulder and her hazel yes were green, very green. He liked it better when they were brown.
A car horn hooted loudly and Brenna whispered that it was Pansy and that she was sorry. Then she left him to sit alone, pathetically crying, in a park.
In a Muggle park. Which was filled with Muggle children.
He tried to hate them. He willed himself, with all his might, to hate them—to hate Brenna. But the thought of her was implanted and all he saw with the Muggle children was her, her, her.
And so he put his head into his arms and didn't look at the children. He stayed that way for a long, long time, until he found a hand on his shoulder.
For a minute he thought it was her, but not, it was too small, too slender. He looked sideways at it and it was too pale, too.
It was Hermione Granger, not looking very sympathetic but more surprised.
"Get up, Malfoy," she ordered him.
"What, Granger?" he said, lifting his—he winced at the thought—tearstained face from his hands. "Come to lord it over me that Malfoy, the arrogant, pureblooded prat, fell in love with a muggle-born witch?"
She looked even more surprised. Draco could have smacked himself. Of course she wouldn't know. What had he been thinking?
Hermione tugged at his hand until he finally gave way and stood. His legs were shaky. She guided him to a secluded café and left him for a moment, coming back with two espressos, a scone, and a chocolate chip muffin. She pushed him a cup and the muffin.
"Now," she said, with a stern and stubborn expression. "Tell me all about it."
And, oddly enough, he did.
- - Four Years Later
Draco paced the small space he had anxiously. Blaise Zabini, a rather nice looking fellow, with a bright smile and thick mustache, followed him, halfheartedly trying to tie his bow.
"Draco, relax. In an hour's time it'll be over, no questioned asked, and you'll have yourself a nice Mrs. Malfoy all to yourself."
Blaise's tone was kind, but Draco analyzed it for any trace of bitterness. He was, after, marrying Blaise's ex-girlfriend. Thankfully, Draco felt no malice.
"It's time!" gasped a butler who stuck his head into the dressing room. Draco swore, nodded, and entered the silent room. About thirty or so rows of benches were in front of the small alter he was standing on. Dumbledore, gowned in all his mad finery, had his hands clasped beside him.
Draco looked into the benches at the guests to his wedding. A brown-haired girl that he was not expecting smiled at his softly.
Who had invited her?
And then the processional music started and his own brown haired angel appeared down the aisle, and all thoughts of Brenna disappeared.
All that was left was his Hermione. And he was glad about it.
His statue had shattered, but it was no masterpiece anyway.