These Things
By: Lady DeathAngel
Disclaimer: not mine, not profiting, 'nuff said.
Warnings: language, eventual slash, possibly violence
A/N: no idea where this came from. It's really just an excuse to write H/D with a slightly Christmas theme. It probably won't be much longer. It really can't afford to be as I've got fqf fics to write on top of a Furuba Yuki/Kyou fic I've wanted to work on and a shamelessly lemony Zack/Freddy School of Rock slash fic I want to write. Anyway, please read, enjoy, and review.
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This, Draco Malfoy decided as he dragged Harry Potter's prone body behind him through labyrinthine dungeons, was a bloody perfect way to spend Christmas Eve. Yes, it was just how he'd imagined it: him, saving the sodding Boy-Who-Lived while his father and Merlin knew who else were willing to kill anyone in their way to make sure he didn't get away.
"I've gone fucking soft if I'm actually doing what I think I'm doing," he muttered to himself.
Because, really, it was laughable. Here he was, the bane of Potter's existence, the antagonist in the great tragedy that was the boy's life, or at least, one of the antagonists (he figured that Voldemort probably played a bigger role than he did, what with the many murder attempts and sending his subordinates after him whenever he got the chance) playing hero to said Potter. He doubted that anyone would believe him if he said he'd spent the last fifteen minutes throwing his bloody back out trying to get the stupid boy as far away from Death Eaters as possible. He could barely believe it himself.
And all he could think as he made his way over dank stones and through dimly lit passageways was that his father had warned him.
Generally it was forbidden for prisoners of Azkaban to strike up a correspondence with anyone and other than the occasional visit from approved individuals, they weren't allowed outside contact with anyone. But the Dementors weren't around anymore to drive their prisoners mad and the only wizards working at Azkaban now were of questionable allegiance anyway. With the world crashing down around the Ministry's ears it was easy to bribe caretakers into delivering letters because there wasn't anyone around to catch them at it.
That was how Draco and his mother had kept contact with his father. They would each write a letter, not too long but enough to summarize whatever had happened since they'd last contacted him, and then his mother would send it off with a sizeable amount of money attached. For the most part their letters had been of the, 'The Ministry's sniffing around, Aurors are all over the place, when are you coming home and fixing this?' variety. His father's replies were along the 'It isn't time, yet' variety. All in all, both Draco and his mother were frustrated because they were left alone to handle the repercussions of the last summer.
His mother, as the head of Malfoy Manor in his father's absence, had been subjected to searches at the Manor. She'd been put under surveillance, her good name held little to no stock any longer, and there were always Ministry officials about threatening to freeze their bank accounts or to confiscate their property or any other number of things if she didn't tell them all she knew about You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters. She wrote Draco at least once a week faking bravado but he knew it had to be hard on her.
And then, of course, was Hogwarts. Potter was a bleeding hero anymore with everyone. They all wanted to touch his robes like he was fucking Merlin or Jesus or something. Younger students couldn't stop talking about him, older students all tripped over themselves when he spoke, the professors let him off without finishing assignments or for showing up to class late, and every morning there were dozens of owls pouring in to ask him to save their crops or to resurrect their familiars. Gryffindor house on a whole was suddenly the most popular house in the castle.
Hufflepuffs walked past the staircase to the tower three times before sunset on Thursdays because Finnigan was spreading the rumor that they'd be blessed by Godric himself if they did. Ravenclaws were pissing themselves to be in classes with Granger and to go to Hogsmeade with Thomas and Weasley and Finnigan and Longbottom because then maybe they'd get a good word in with Potter. The younger students idolized Colin Creevy because he had pictures of his house-mates and everyone treated McGonnagal with a new sort of reverence. Gryffindor was the house of heros and legends and gods, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were just details and Slytherin . . . Slytherin was suffering.
On a level, Draco had been expecting it, but not to the extent of the reality of it. He'd gone back to school riding in a horseless carriage with Pansy and Blaise and Millicent. Vince and Greg weren't coming back. He'd gotten that owl earlier in the summer. Apparently there had been death threats and evictions and rumor had it that Greg's mum had committed suicide in early July. It was all a huge mess and he'd only gotten a note from each of them to tell him they were all right but wouldn't be around.
When they'd arrived at the castle and climbed out of their carriage they were greeted by stares and whispers. At first Draco was certain it was his imagination but it didn't stop in the Great Hall and in the brightly lit room it was easier to notice they were being glared daggers at and people were pointing fingers. Pansy, who was sitting to his left, let out a growl when a Ravenclaw said in a rather loud voice, "See that one there? The pug-nosed one. Yeah, her. Think her parents are in with You-Know-Who? Bet they are. Bet all their parents are."
"Why don't you mind your own bloody business?" she demanded.
The Ravenclaw just sneered at her and turned back to his friends, this time muttering about Draco's father, the one no one could seem to get enough of talking about. It was like that all the time. He'd turn around and some stupid prick was prattling on about how Draco's father was an evil slaughterer of Muggles and should be hanged or burned at a stake. Pansy had gotten into so many fights she stopped going to Madame Pomfrey out of embarrassment, instead leaving it to Blaise and Millicent to fix her up. The younger students had it even worse.
They couldn't even defend themselves, the weak chits. They were the ones who got laughed at in classes for answering questions; they were the ones that got pushed down stairs and threatened; they were the ones people didn't bother lowering their voices around.
The professors had noticed. There was no way they hadn't. The same went for Head Boy and Head Girl, some Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw bitch who didn't seem inclined to do anything but laugh right along with her friends when they charmed a first year's hair a grotesque green. And the Prefects . . . well, there was no getting through to them. The worst part about that was Weasley and Granger were the most understanding. They thought it was a bit sickening what the rest of the students were doing and had joined up what the Weasel called 'Malfoy's Cause'.
But there weren't enough people taking a stand to make a difference. Snape did what he could, and Granger and Weasley made an effort. McGonnagal was as fair as always and none of the other teachers were contributing, they just weren't putting a stop to it.
So it was up to the sixth and seventh years to console the younger students and to heal their scrapes when they were convinced if they went to Madam Pomfrey they'd be hurt even worse the next day. And it was a horrid, horrid experience. Draco realized, then, what it meant to be bitter, what it meant to truly hate and he spent less time concerned about Potter being famous (because, honestly, the prat looked miserable most of the time anyway) and more time angry.
He was angry at Dumbledore for having no control over anything, he was angry at You-Know-Who for his stupidity, and he was angry at his father for deciding he'd rather be at the side of a deranged Dark Lord than helping his son and his wife. He thought it was so selfish of the world to be waging its war and painting everyone black or white and leaving the ones who had no choice in the matter to fend for themselves.
It wasn't easy for him to accept. He'd grown up with his father telling him all he had to do was listen to him and he'd be safe. He'd been told that his pure blood would ensure he'd live long enough to see a world reemerge that wasn't filled with Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers. He'd never liked You-Know-Who or his ideals. He'd done research on him and for one thing he was a Half-blood which made him a hypocrite. For another his methods were a lot like a crazy Muggle named Hitler's and he couldn't be much if he was taking after barbaric Muggles and was constantly being bested by a boy who was either a baby or a scrawny teenager at the time.
Still, he trusted his father just like many pure-bloods trusted You-Know-Who's plans and look where it had gotten them. Being ostracized for being exactly what they were supposed to be safe because of. Pure-bloods.
And as all this was happening and he was having an epiphany that he really didn't want, a letter came from his father. It told him that it was time now. That they'd all been biding their time but that they were being called now and there was a plan.
I know, it had read, that your mother insisted you stay at Hogwarts for the holidays. She had her reasons. Fool reasons if you ask me, but as you're there I must warn you to stay on your guard and never go off alone. Avoid Harry Potter at all costs and don't breathe a word of this to anyone.
Which was a shitty warning in retrospect, Draco thought as he pulled Potter into an empty, unlit corridor hidden behind a small statue of someone or something, not that he cared to examine the plaque or anything. 'Stay on your guard'. Right. It had become a widely acknowledged fact that no matter how 'on his guard' Draco was, he was always getting hit square between the shoulder blades by something and this was no different.
"You'd better wake up soon, Potter," he muttered. "Because I'm not dragging your scrawny arse another meter."
And he sat and he waited.