AN: Thank you for all the reviews… again! I really love getting them and reading your input. To DCoD, I cannot believe I didn't catch that. I specifically remember reading that one sentence… and thinking it might be improved, but I just didn't write OR reread it correctly.

Also, it has been suggested I put up a disclaimer. I want to reiterate, this site is called If I was anything but a fan, I would be writing this on my own and getting a publisher. :P I'm sure you're bored of my dribble sooooo…

Chapter 2: Two and Two Makes Seven?

I was curled up like a cat on my sofa next to the roaring fire, admiring the flickering licks the flames emitted. I carefully turned the delicate pages of Advanced Wizarding Laws: An In Depth Look at Our Justice System. Yawning, I shut the book at last. I rubbed at my eyes and pulled up the quilt around me. The Wizard clock on the wall had been charmed to give a soft "tick-tock-tick" and I began to get lost in my dreams…

A man stood tall, leering into the wind. He was saying something, snidely—his tone of voice was cold and frustrated a flurry of emotions within me. He grabbed me into his arms, kissing me. Repulsed, my dream self slapped him across the face and tripped backwards. I looked up for him, but with a flash of lightning he was gone. Disappeared. I was still falling, falling, falling… I was in a hospital, wearing a white patient's gown. Picking up a parchment next to my bed, I read a few lines of indiscrete writing. It was my handwriting. I looked up and saw an owl at the hospital window, and I found myself writing some very raunchy finishing lines before walking to the bird. As I reached it, I got a sense of cold and then… I was in school again, every professor telling me how I failed them miserably as a witch. Why couldn't I be better? They had so much faith in me. I was shaking, in fear and sorrow. I opened my mouth to reply, but in a flash I was back in the hospital. There was no bird, no parchment letter. I picked up a mirror. I was Harry? Where was my scar? His scar. What? Confusion enveloped me and then… I was tumbling…

"BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING NEWS!" the radio blasted. Grumbling, I went to hit off my alarm. Where is the snooze button and why isn't it going off!

Grumbling, I tried to pull back the mess that is my "hair." Resorting to the wand method, I pinned it back in a bun. Rubbing at my eyes, I sat up to inspect the radio. But it wasn't a clock or an alarm. So why was it blasting infernally?

"BREAKING NEWS IN THE WIZARDING WORLD! THE STORY OF A YEAR!" the announcer shouted. What could be so important to automatically turn on my radio? I ignored the shouting—gossip, most likely. Maybe someone big and important was getting married.

Yawning, I went to make myself coffee and grabbed a pastry via wand. I sat at the kitchenette table staring out the small windows. It was unusually sunny, and it gave me a picturesque morning scene. Sipping quietly at my coffee, and taking nibbles at the pastry, I tried to ponder what I last learned in my book last night. Laws. Eh, it's a lost cause. Boring, boring, and boring. I tried to keep from a smile, that book was my Instant-Sleep Potion.

I stretched out my legs and leaned back in my nightgown. I had a relatively small apartment, but I liked to call it quaint. I had the small sitting room with my sofa and a few bookshelves by the fireplace. It joined into my small kitchen, which was really a few cupboards and a stove oven. Then this was my nook, a small table by the windows. It jutted out, like it was in the added window space. And I had my room and bathroom. Very small, but I liked it; particularly for its views from the old, carved out windows. It was an antique to me.

Pulled from my thoughts, I heard a dull scratching at my window. Jumping up, I let the owl in, giving him some of my pastry. He dropped a hugely thick issue of The Daily Prophet on my table. Its weight caused my coffee to slosh dangerously within its mug.

"Thank you," I mumbled to the bird before it swooped off. "Well this is odd…"

Humming to myself idly, I took one last sip of coffee before banishing it with my wand. I picked up the very thick newspaper and unfolded it. Within seconds my eyes enlarged.

DEATH OF HARRY POTTER, VERDICT MUDER: WHO DID IT? READ MORE INSIDE

Gasping for breath, I scanned the first six long pages. All of it detailed Harry's life, and gave a brief history of the "great Potter bloodline." Reaching the seventh page, I nearly cried out in shock as I read the headline.

SUSPECTS IN CUSTODY FOR POTTER'S MURDER: But how did he die?

Growling, I flipped through more pages on theories of curses and Dark Arts used to cause Harry's unfair death. Finally, page thirteen came. Relief set in, as I knew this was the story that would give me answers.

PUREBLOOD DRACO MALFOY WANTED FOR MURDER OF THE WIZARDING WORLD'S SAVIOR

I was so shocked that tears fell from my eyes for no reason. Before thinking, I quickly skimmed the articles below.

They detailed the Malfoy prejudice against mixed marriages between Muggle and Magic. They detailed Lucius Malfoy's large investment in Dark Arts; they finished the story on Mr. Malfoy Sr. was locked in Azkaban for his close involvement with Voldemort, and how he died a year ago. They detailed Narcissa Malfoy's passive, slowly advancing insanity—how three weeks before Harry's death, right after the Final Battle she was put into hospital care by her son. Then, they finally made a mockery of Draco Malfoy's name. I was for it in the beginning, but as I read on in the article I realized that they were trying to portray Malfoy as a vile, violent, bloodthirsty creature that would not be satisfied until Harry died (well, that was obviously done with), and until every Muggle and Muggle-born were extinguished.

I knew this wasn't true to the tee, but it mostly added up. "From the tender age of eleven, Malfoy entered Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, vowing cruel treatment to all beneath him." Yes, he had been most abhorrent to me. But wasn't he raised this way? Under prejudice and immense pride for himself?

Sighing, I finished the articles and put the newspaper heavily back to the table. It was a special issue. Twenty pages on Harry's death. And then all the regular stories, articles and news lay behind it, making the paper twice as big.

I shut my eyes and tried to remember what happened in that hospital room. Sixty-ninth time….

Gasping in horror, my eyes shot open.


I felt the end of the strenuous DisApparation come. I landed at the door of my inherited Manor, before ringing the bell. I was let in by our House-Elf— Winky or Dinky or something like that. I dismissed him… or her… immediately, before waltzing into the sitting parlor. It was full of large, Victorian furniture. My favorite was the satiny, blue cloth fainting chair. I would have opted for it now, except for the entrance of an unwelcome guest.

"Master," whispered Zinky with a deep bow.

"What is it now?" I mumbled. Not angrily, but definitely not a voice full of appreciation.

"Master, Pinky comes to tell Master that Master have a guest… a Mr. Lestrange," the House-Elf spoke with jittery mannerisms.

"Tell him I am very ill and will be visiting only with the family MediWizard until I know what is plaguing me," I replied heavily. It wasn't a lie—why would I ever lie to Rodolpus; he would find a way to make consequences dire. With or without Voldemort still alive.

"Yes, Master," Wrinkly said with a gracious bow which finished so low that his floppy ears hit the Oriental rug. With a pop, she disappeared.

I had only told partial truth, but I did not outright lie. That's the first rule when surviving as a suspected spy. You can't just lie—there are too many ifs and buts about it. Someone could find out; someone could trick you into saying something that wasn't what you had fibbed earlier; someone could personally see and testify that you had done something that you are saying you didn't do; and you yourself could mess-up and get your stories crossed. And this rule of thumb is not just for spies or for Death Eaters—it is for Malfoys to survive in the new, liberal, equal-rights Wizarding World.

Every move and every word I say must be calculated. My statement that will be precisely repeated to Rodolphus Lestrange, for example, is not a lie. I do not plan on seeing anyone in the next few days. I will call up the family MediWizard for a headache serum and a Dreamless Sleeping Drought. I may never know what is plaguing me, but for the next few days I am going to be preoccupied with remedying exactly what my identity for the past few years was… and I believe, until I figure out who I am and who I was, I will not be seeing anyone who may influence me. Which is everyone.

The Magical World is labeled now. I've seen it. People walk down the streets, glaring at one another, searching for a sign. It's like we all have "GOOD" or "EVIL" stamped on our robes. For example, I was in Diagon Alley the other day. A mother was walking with her son, who must have been around seven. I watched as another mother and her daughter walked down from the opposite side of the alley. The son of the first mother was playing with a toy airplane, it would be considered Muggle and therefore plebian, except it was charmed to fly by the way the young boy moved his index finger. The second mother and her daughter were simply strutting quickly down the slightly crowded area. The son was bumped into by a man, who apologized as he rushed off. This caused the boys finger to zigzag around. The toy airplane hit the little girl, just a mere bump and definitely nothing serious. The first mother dusted off her son, who had fallen and began to walk away. The second mother started shouting at the first. The first mother must have been evil, to raise her son in such a way that accidents may happen to him. The first mother simply shook her head and shouted back that it was no one's fault. She stamped herself as good.

I sighed, and tried to clear my thoughts. The point of my long tangent was that everyone was out to label everyone else as bad. And everyone is self-righteous now. "Good. Good. Oh, they must be bad. I don't know them. Bad, bad, bad." It's like the entire world is taking two and two and coming up with seven! It's ridiculous.

Grumbling, I stood up and stretched. Kinky popped back into the room, with another huge bow. "Master, Mr. Lestrange says 'I am sorry to hear that Draco is feeling ill, please let him know that there are some important matters to discuss about the continuance of Death Eaters. Please let him know to Floo me or send me an Owl immediately when he is better…' And then Mr. Lestrange leave, Master. He pick up his robe and walk out. As he on porch…"

The little House-Elf looked terrified. Most do when they tell secrets. Intrigued, I urged him to go on. "Please, let Master know what Mr. Lestrange did or said before he left."

Hinkzy blinked with wide eyes, "Master, Pinky is not supposed to eaves drop." She started hitting her head in frustration.

"Tell me now, exactly what you heard. This is an order." I said sternly, confidently.

"He says into his wand, 'Malfoy is not speaking with me, let alone any of what should be considered his kin. This should confirm to everyone at our meeting. He is out of time with the Death Eaters. He is not loyal.'" Oinky mumbled in imitation before ending in a fit of sobs.

"Curious," I replied, my mind swelling with thoughts. "Why are you sobbing, you dolt, get out!"

Tinkly sniffled and popped away. I decided to lie down on the fainting couch, staring at the ceiling. I had just come back from Harry Potter's top-secret funeral service. No one had found out, except for Granger. The others had all been fooled by my enchantment. Everything white was supposed to turn up black in others eyes. My suit, my shoes, my tie, my hair, and even my skin… Maybe Granger had a trained, powerful mind, which could see through simple enchantments… But it just didn't make sense.

Shrugging, I kicked off my shoes. I reached for my wand to undo the spell. With a sweeping motion I was "normal" again. I stared at the wand in my hands. Was it a shade darker than…?

Stopping dead, I dropped it. This wasn't my wand. My wand was slightly lighter. It was more… it was more Malfoy. This one…

Panicking slightly, I took a deep breath. Sure, no one was around, but I wanted to keep my composure just the same. It wasn't Malfoy to loose it over a stolen wand. Why would someone steal my wand and replace it with another one? And why wouldn't I notice?

I calmed these thoughts and picked up the piece of wood like it was a contaminated piece of bathroom tissue. Summoning a towel, I wrapped it around the wand and thought for a few minutes. My father had shown me this spell once.

Flicking my wrist in complicated twirls, and then twisting my palm upward, I spoke some heavy words:

"Melaconan, diaspernum,

Trees of the East, Sun of the West,

Pieronus, Lunarsunt,

Ancient powers of the faithless,

Conjurnum, may mort,

Stitches in time, purest of pure,

Come now, descend upon these hands,

And discern for me, the younger and less cured,

And decide if this is my true power, my true tool of magic

Melaconan, diaspernum,

Rianyament, Tiolicarum."

Taking a deep breath, a silver and green light enveloped me and the wand. It took thirty seconds, no more, but it felt like an eternity and drained me of my magical energy.

The wand flew from my hands and burst into green and white flames. "Well, I guess that answers my question…"

"House-Elf... Pinky?" I shouted. With a pop, the little House-Elf appeared. "Clear out these ashes. I am missing my wand, if you could put out an Owl to the ministry for me explaining I have been with a fake wand for at least… six weeks."

The House-Elf bowed and popped away. I sat back down, covering my eyes. What was I considering? I blinked several times. My identity. Was I really a spy for the good side, as Harry so believed? Or was I really a double-edged sword for Voldemort to use? Was I truly … evil?

Moaning, I rolled onto my side. "Assistance!" I called and a new House-Elf popped into the room. "I want Ogden's. Now."

"Yes, Master," the high-pitched voice replied, before bowing away and invisibly placing the glass of alcohol on my coffee table.

I had barely time to think. It is very hard to be so calculated, all the time. This need to be so perfect must have contributed to why I had been walking around with a switched out wand for the past month and a half. Three weeks ago Harry Potter died, a technical day before that was the Final Battle, and three weeks before that… What was I doing then? I had been to Madam Malkin's for new dress robes for Pansy Parkinson's early wedding to Blaise Zabini. They were very nice robes, dark green with silver sparkles. A bit feminine, but that never hurt a man. Girls were into that sort of well-groomed thing. And Malfoys were always well-groomed. Shaking my head, I realized that in my pursuit to look the picture of perfection, I must have put my wand down while I was changing.

Thinking it over, it was actually quite hard to be a Malfoy. Parents expecting the best racist personality you can come up with, prejudice, arrogance, good looks… You had to have it all. Especially key was an interest and talent in the Dark Arts, that was an important skill. But now, I was the last one. I was the last one… My father's influence is gone. He died in Azkaban after being "found out" as evil. My mother was driven insane by him, and when he was finally gone she did not know how to live. So now she is living at Saint Christian's Mental Institute for the Magically Gifted. She's not dead; she's not living.

So who am I now? No one can tell me how to act. No one expects me to act a certain way. I don't think I'm "evil," but for what I've done… things I've had to do at the will of others above me… I am not "good." I am far from good. I lay between the two norms, lost in the color grey.

"Master," chimed in yet another House-Elf. "Master, Mimi gone and looks out at gates to Malfoy Estate… Looks out is Mimi's job…"

"Yes, yes, what is it?" I say. You really have to loose your patience with these creatures.

"Mimi comes to tell Master unwanted guests rushing up here now," Mimi squeaked.

"Who?" I leapt up. Now I don't have a wand; I am completely unprotected. Thanks a lot, for that spell, Dad.

"Mimi is s-s-s-sorry…"

"Who is it?" I shout.

There's a series of shotgun-like noises. Crack! Crack! I am surrounded by a group of Aurors, at least, I think. I sneer and smirk, my mask on already. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this lovely, uninvited company, gentlemen?"

They surround me with spells and arrest me. I simply smirk.

To be a Malfoy, lastly, is to always be misunderstood.


AN: Yay? Nay? That was three thousand words, guys. :P Long chapter. I wanted to let you know that Draco is unguarded in his thoughts… I tried to make that clear in his attitude when other people are around, even when it's just his House-Elves. From his reaction to Hermione at the funeral, to his sudden old smarmy self when Aurors show up. :D Oooo, what happens to Draco? From HIS point of view? Review!