Author's Note:
Here I am again with a new chapter. This one was quite difficult to write because it just didn't 'feel' right. I think I re-wrote this 6 or 7 times, but now I'm finally happy with it.
I'd be eternally grateful for any constructive criticism, so don't hesitate to say when something irks you.
Other than that I do hope you will enjoy this chapter.
Insanely yours,
Pace
Chapter revised: 2005-12-01
Inspiration: 'Crawling up a hill' by Katie Melua
Matchmaker
Matchmaker,
matchmaker, make me a match.
Find me a find; Catch me a catch.
Matchmaker, matchmaker, look through your book
and make me
the perfect match.
- From "Fiddler on the Roof" (musical)
Chapter 2 – Crawling up a hillThe sun rose once again over Flamborough Head, gleaming golden. It mercilessly drove away the shadows of the night and the sweet oblivion it brought him. Draco Malfoy sighed deeply, although it was a very unmalfoy-ish thing to do.
His father had been gone for three weeks now. Three weeks in which neither he nor his mother knew where he was; three weeks in which all they had known was that he hadn't fallen into the hands of the ministry (the Daily Prophet surely wouldn't have missed that); three weeks in which Draco had been the lord of Malfoy Manor and responsible for the family's fortune and possessions, a role he had been prepared to take over all his live, but now found himself struggling with; he felt he wasn't doing it any justice.
Carefully, Draco pushed the window open and inhaled deeply; a salty breeze greeted him, tickling his nose. Scotland was nice, the landscape was amazing, but nothing could compare to mornings at the East Yorkshire Coast. The sound of the waves rushing towards the shore as seagulls were sailing on the salty breeze (rarely quietly) and distant specks of brilliant white – the sails of tiny fishing boats – brushed against the glowing sky, would appear romantic or maybe even somewhat corny to some onlookers, but to Draco, this view was simply "home".
How people could live happily without the fickle ocean nearby was beyond him – the rocky coast of Flamborough Head was his home, his pride and his joy and Draco couldn't picture himself living anywhere else. Well maybe Thornwick Bay or Danes Dyke, but those were nearby, not even half an hour of flight away.
The nearest town – full of muggles, mind you – was Bridlington. When he had been younger, Draco had been tutored in etiquette by an old witch that came to Malfoy Manor from Bridlington every day. She'd always complain about the muggles; about how loud their cars and motorbikes were and how they swarmed the whole town like a plague. And as if it weren't enough that there were muggles living all over the place, there were also muggles from other towns coming to see Bridlington! She had never tired of telling Draco that muggles were "the sin and the evil of the world" and in turn, he had never forgotten it.
Often, she would tell him that there was only one thing worse than a muggle and that was a mudblood; because they claimed to be as much as a witch or wizard as anyone else but failed to see that they were in fact only muggles with a feeble talent for magic. How could they dare to declare themselves equal to the noble pureblood families? They didn't know the ways of the Magical Community, the do's and don'ts of magic and etiquette that were one of the many reasons why wizards were above muggles. All one had to do was to look at the way they dressed, for Merlin's sake!
Draco smirked at the memory. It was true that mudbloods dressed differently in their spare time. At Hogwarts, you could pick them out easily, especially on weekends – most of them were glad to shed their robes and exchange them for jeans and sweaters, shorts and T-shirts, things called "tube tops" that he personally found quite intriguing and obscenely short skirts (the girls anyway). Pansy or Millicent (or any other self-respecting pureblood witch) wouldn't be caught dead in those "clothes", but many an hour had been spent in the Slytherin common room discussing the strange fashion of the muggles and how it was rarely decent or appropriate for wearing in public.
The young man sighed again. Breakfast would be served soon and a landlord's schedule didn't leave much time for dawdling and daydreaming – and neither did that of his son.
When his father had left, he had given Draco very clear instructions. He was to take care of the mansion and the family name the same way he would if he could be there; he was to look after his mother, who didn't seem to be taking the separation well; and he was to continue the lessons he had asked to be given after completing the first half of his second year.
He dressed quietly and quickly, tying his hair with a sleek black ribbon in the nape of his neck. He had stopped cutting it off a while ago and it had grown well past his shoulders. It made him look even more like his father and in the past week Draco had found this fact to be strangely comforting – although he would never admit that to anyone, just as he would never admit that every night before he fell asleep, he dreaded the moment he would eventually wake up again. A house elf entered his room and he turned around and left without a second glance.
He had a rather harsh schedule: first answering the mail (the absence of Lucius Malfoy didn't mean that people stopped writing to ask for money or offered their services to the Malfoy family and doing the correspondence always required several hours of careful phrasing and accurate calculating), then breakfast with his mother (it was the only time of the day he'd have the chance to just sit and enjoy her presence), then he had his first lesson for the day (dancing lessons – he had never asked for those but his parents deemed them necessary), followed immediately by lunch (all alone in that huge dining room), several hours of tutoring in Arithmancy, Charms and Transfiguration came right after that, ending at quarter to five which was the time when Lucius had usually taken his afternoon tea.
On the first day, right after his father had gone into hiding, a house elf had placed a tray with tea and 3 biscuits (that Lucius never ate but oddly enough insisted on) on his desk. Draco had stared at the tray as if it were something monstrous; no one had told the house elves not to serve Lucius' afternoon tea because he was no longer there.
Draco had taken the cup with shaking hands, spilling the hot liquid it held and had thrown it against the nearest wall, overwhelmed by sudden anger and pain. He had stormed out of the study jabbing his wand into the general direction of his bedroom (to hell with the decree of Underage Wizard Magic) and had summoned his broom; it had reached him the moment he stepped out of the mansion, his mother trailing closely behind him to ask what was wrong, and he had mounted it immediately and took off without as much as a single word.
Here at the coast, the wind was treacherous; one second you were riding on a soft breeze, the next you were being thrown off your broom by a vicious gust of air that would appear without any forewarning. It was an excellent training for his flying skills (no matter what that Hooch woman said, Draco knew he could fly, fly like the devil in fact if he needed to) but if Draco weren't familiar with the fickle winds of the area, flying off without a thought would have been actually quite dangerous.
He would do this every day right after he had finished his tutoring: take his broom, kick off the ground hard and soar through the air, flying as if a madman were after him, trying to lose himself in the feel of the wind tugging on his robes and hair as he sped over the ocean and rocky coastline.
The only damper was that the East Yorkshire Coast no longer was an area populated entirely by wizards, as it had been in the 9th century, when the Danes (actually Danish wizards, among whom his ancestors had been) had settled down here, which meant that the Malfoy heir actually had to pay more mind to the possibilities of muggles spotting him than he would have liked to; a nuisance, really.
After his afternoon 'fun' he would return to his father's study to prepare for the following day, reply to some more mail then study for school and finally go to sleep some time after midnight, consequently skipping supper. It wasn't exactly the way he pictured his vacation and he was looking forward to his return to Hogwarts when at least the burden of being head of the Malfoy family would be (temporarily) lifted from his shoulders, if nothing else.
And so it was again today that Draco stepped into his father's study to be greeted by one of the family's house elves and a stack of letters all of which he intended to have at least read by the time he would join his mother for breakfast.
In the past, all of the family's correspondence had went through Lucius' hands first just as now every letter, no matter whether it was addressed to his parents or himself, would go through Draco's. His letters had never been given to him already opened, but his father liked to know who the family was having contact with and he himself had never found this to be disturbing or a violation of his privacy. Sometimes, his father would casually say something like 'That Ms Parkinson sure writes often. She fancies you?' or 'You haven't received a letter from Crabbe and Goyle all summer… did the three of you have a falling out of some sorts?' which was his way of showing that he was actually interested in his son's life.
Wearing his trademark scowl, Draco sat behind his father's desk and began to sort through the mail; some were letters from his friends and he set them aside to read later – business had to come first. There were a few letters from 'former' business partners of his father expressing their concern that the contracts they had made with Lucius would actually be honoured (he had received quite a few of those), invitations to social gatherings he had decided the Malfoy family would refrain from attending for a while and the occasional plea for money - he was quite disgusted when he realized that only one of those had been send by some charity organization and the rest were actually the pleas of former 'family friends' who didn't know or understand the meaning of a simple phrase such as "Waste not."
There were three letters however, that piqued Draco's curiosity: one wore the crest of the Ministry of Magic, one he recognized to have been sent from his school and the third was suspiciously flashy, the envelope kept changing colour and the address (Mr Draco Malfoy; Malfoy Manor; Flamborough Head; East Yorkshire Coast) morphed into various different font styles that adjusted its colour to be noticeable against the ever-changing background of the envelope.
After a moment of contemplation he decided to open the flashy looking envelope first. The letter (he was somewhat grateful that it was written on regular parchment with regular green ink) proofed to be a request for an interview with a columnist of 'Teen Magic', a magazine that he knew Pansy and Millicent couldn't live without, which he had never read, however. Alright, so there might have been that one time at Pansy's birthday where he had been utterly bored and desperate, but other than that…
The second letter, the one he had received from Hogwarts, contained his booklist and prefect's badge – he had been asked to return it at the end of term, but so had been all other prefects as well. Snape had assured him he would get it back and that Dumbledore merely wished for a re-designing of the badges (absolute nonsense in Draco's opinion – things that were supposed to give you authority and power didn't have to be fashionable) and now that Draco saw the result of this 're-designing' he couldn't help but think that the old headmaster had ruined a perfectly handsome prefect badge. Before the badge had been made of shiny silver with an emerald green 'P' (for Slytherin) on it; the new badge, however, was round and divided into quarters, each quarter colored for one of the school's houses. On the green quarter of the badge there was a monochrome snake coiling around the foot of the also monochrome letter 'P', the image being created solely by the green background or (in some places) of the lack of it. He snorted and put the badge and booklist into the top drawer, then opened the last letter.
His stomach clenched slightly as he broke the seal. A letter from the Ministry of Magic was bad news if your father was a Death Eater on the run. He read the letter once then re-read it to make sure and then read it a third time, out loud, for good measure. The content didn't change (much to his dismay) and Draco immediately set to copy the letter so he could send it to his lawyers. With a quick glance out of the window he realized that it was almost time for breakfast and while copying the letter he contemplated whether he should tell his mother about it or not.
ooo
Hermione Granger was enjoying her summer vacation just as much as Draco Malfoy was enjoying his – although neither of them knew that. She had had a rather huge fight with her father concerning her return to the Order of Phoenix and Hogwarts altogether.
Dr Andrew Granger had been, to put it mildly, not exactly overjoyed when his daughter and a somewhat shabby and tired looking wizard (he had introduced himself as Remus Lupin) had told him of what was currently happening in the Magical Community. When he realized that Hermione could have died during her little trip to the Department of Mysteries his paternal instincts had kicked in full force. Unfortunately these very instincts usually managed to switch off his brain the moment they sprung into action and so he stubbornly ignored Hermione's arguments and her claims that keeping her at home would endanger her as well as her parents.
Instead, he had thanked the wizard for his visit and asked him to tell the headmaster that Hermione would return to neither Hogwarts nor the order and then proceeded to giving Hermione the grounding of a life time.
So now she was stuck in her room, grounded, as I already said, with only Crookshanks to keep her company. Her father had locked her wand and books somewhere in the basement and Hermione now had a vague idea of what summers must have felt like for Harry when having to stay with his muggle-relatives. She sighed and buried her face in Crookshanks' ginger fur.
Harry. Last summer had been quite hard on Harry – he had had to deal with the death of Cedric Diggory (they had never been close enough to be friends but Hermione knew that Harry had blamed himself for Cedric's demise), a Dementor attack and a disciplinary trial, not to mention being isolated from his friends for most of the summer and having no information on what was happening in the magical community in the weeks to follow his witnessing of the Dark Lord's return.
And now Harry's birthday was only 2 days away and Hermione couldn't think of anything but how he must be feeling in the wake of his godfather's death (for which, no doubt, Harry would again blame himself), his approaching birthday and the inevitable return to Hogwarts in 4-weeks-time. Briefly she wondered whether her friends knew of her current predicament. Neither of them had written to her all summer and seeing how she had no owl herself she couldn't send them a letter, either. It was times like these when she felt a slight tinge of regret for not having bought an owl in her third year when she had had a chance to although her mother positively adored Crookshanks and having a cat for a pet certainly didn't require any explanations to her relatives.
Laughter floated up to Hermione's open window and feeling disturbed in her gloomy thoughts she shut it with a loud bang, sending a dark look at her father who didn't seem to notice as he was currently telling one of their neighbours a joke. Normally, Hermione wouldn't pass up a chance to enjoy the annual block party, but today she simply refused to play the perfect little daughter for her parents. After all, she wasn't perfect so why bother to pretend?
Ever since she had been grounded, she had tried to argue with her father. Hermione had been smart enough not to go out and discuss Hogwarts openly – her father would have blocked any argument beginning with the words "Dad, about Hogwarts…" in less than a half nanosecond. Instead she had brought the matter up during times when his guard was down and there was a chance he might actually register her argument, which was usually Thursday nights when the family sat down to watch a movie together.
They had watched "The court jester" (an old comedy taking place in medieval England which had always been Hermione's favourites movie) and the cowardly and clumsy Hubert Hawkins had just received his first "real" task for the rebels, when Hermione had sighed "Admirable," to herself.
"Why yes, it's always admirable when someone decides to fight for a cause he or she believes in," her father had said.
Sensing her chance, Hermione had replied: "Lucky Hawkins then". Her father had turned half in his seat to look at her.
"Why lucky?" he asked surprised.
"He's got no parents that stop him from doing it," she had answered evenly and had excused herself to bed before her father had had a chance to respond.
Another time they were watching "West Side Story" (the Grangers loved musicals) and Hermione had somehow managed to compare the roof scene (Bernardo's and Anita's little 'sing-off') with her situation as a witch that would like to act like one but couldn't because she wasn't allowed to attend Hogwarts. Apparently her mother had liked that argument very much because the next day Hermione found her Potions and Arithmancy books between her ironed laundries.
The next time the family sat down to watch a movie (Elisabeth Granger had taken it onto herself to rent a few for them to pick from, conveniently choosing movies like 'The Untouchables', 'Last Man Standing', 'The Blues Brothers' and 'The wizard of Oz'), Andrew Granger had frowned at the selection, sending a dark glance at his wife.
"So you're on her side now, too," he had said accusingly and then retreated to his study. Hermione's mother had smiled at the young witch and had said: "Don't worry, honey, we'll get him eventually."
Then she had fetched two bowls with ice cream, strawberries, chocolate sauce and whipped cream and mother and daughter had watched 'Pretty Woman' for probably the millionth time together.
Through the closed window, Hermione could still hear laughter from the streets and she groaned in frustration. How was one supposed to grief and sulk properly when there were people just outside your window creating enough buzzing, happy noises that were as infectious as the measles?
Grumpily, Hermione trudged down the stairs to get herself some lemonade, setting Crookshanks down who obediently followed her, knowing there was a treat waiting for him if he stuck around long enough for his mistress to open the fridge. The brunette stepped into the kitchen, her bare feet padding softly against the linoleum. Just as she reached for the refrigerators' handle (the same moment Crookshanks meowed pitifully and rubbed himself against her bare legs), she heard a dull knock. Hermione half turned to glance at the back door and what she saw there made her breath hitch.
ooo
It was half past six when Draco Malfoy touched down in the gardens of Malfoy Manor, demounting his broom. The harsh evening wind was whipping around him, tugging on his hair and tearing on his robes. Carefully, he examined the broom – it was quite old and the wind's ferocity had quite surprised him; he feared he might have asked too much of it when taking to it for a ride today. It seemed to be in perfect shape, however, and so Draco made his way towards the manor, ascending the great staircase and following the corridor to his left until the very end. Generations of Malfoys watched him with scrutinizing looks. Any slouch or stumble would earn him their harsh words and criticism, but for some time now, the blond wizard found it easier to move with the posture and grace demanded of him – the dancing lessons had been good for something. Quietly, he stepped into a room which his mother had playfully dubbed 'the broom closet', as it held and displayed Draco's collection of racing brooms.
Other boys would collect the Famous Witches and Wizards cards that came with Chocolate Frogs (how ordinary and dull), or whatever items were associated with their Quidditch team or favourite band, but not him. When every boy he knew simply had to have Martin Miggs comics, Draco had only wanted a broom; when the first Weird Sisters record 'Weird for you' was a must-have for every kid, Draco only wanted a broom; when everyone he knew was simply mad for Puddlemere United, Draco only wanted an autograph from the Falmouth Falcons – and one of their brooms.
Flying had been his first love; Quidditch was his mistress; that was all Draco Malfoy needed to be happy.
Carefully, the young wizard placed the broom he had been flying on two handles that were connected by a sign saying 'Silver Arrow' in bold letters as his eyes swept over his valuable collection in mute satisfaction. Next to the Silver Arrow was his Shooting Star, an original from the first batch to be produced in 1955 and the first Nimbus broom, the Nimbus 1000. Draco also possessed a Twigger 90 and a Tinderblast, as well as a Comet Two Sixty and of course the Nimbus 2001, which his father had equipped the entire Slytherin Quidditch team with when Draco had joined them. That had been in his 2nd year. It was resting in a showcase, the pale handle contrasting nicely with the green velvet pillow Draco had placed it on. There were two other showcases in the room that were empty.
Although he already owned a collection of passable racing brooms, Draco Malfoy was yearning to add two special brooms to his collection. One was the 'Moontrimmer', a broom that had been produced in 1901 for a short time and that had been highly innovative for that time – the 'mother of all racing brooms' – the other broom, however, was the Firebolt.
It wasn't for the fact that Harry Potter owned one or for the Firebolt being the best broom available (because it wasn't), but more for the broom's collecting value. The Firebolt series would enter the third production season, soon, and afterwards, there would be no more Firebolts. It was also the broom that had been flown at his first Quidditch World Cup ever – he had to have one, damn it!
Draco stepped over to a broom leaning against the grey stone wall. Its dark handle gleamed softly and the word 'Nightchaser' was engraved on it. The broom was a commission – it bore the Malfoy crest and a tiny 'E&S 001'. There would be only 100 Nightchasers and there was a waiting list. Not everyone would be fortunate enough to own such a splendid racing broom and the thought of flying it during a match at Hogwarts made Draco giddy with anticipation and excitement. Lovingly, he caressed the handle revelling in the feel of the wood's smooth warmth. He smirked. Potter's Firebolt would look like an oversized duster next to his treasure.
Satisfied with his little examination, Draco turned and left 'the broom closet' to get some more work done. He had had a house elf write standard replies to the letters of his father's business partners which only required his signature and seal; the family's lawyers had not yet responded to his letter – he had decided to inform his mother about that wretched ministry letter only after he'd read the recommendations of Messrs Petersen, Bowent and Johnson (P, B and J for short).
The only letter he still needed to write was the reply for Teen Magic – it would come off as rude if he waited too long and despite his current situation, Draco wasn't willing to let go of a chance to claim the spotlight for himself. He noticed with great satisfaction that Potter had never been featured in Teen Magic, although he didn't know that because he regularly read that magazine or something similar; no, he knew so because Pansy would have made sure to let him know if he had been. With a somewhat happy expression Draco made his way towards his father's study, only to choke on his smile as he came face to face with 3 wizards he had only rarely met in person – Messrs Petersen, Bowent and Johnson.
ooo
Lilaea was sulking. Severus Snape had refused to tell her what he was up to and had so far blocked all her of attempts to find out just what that list said rather successfully. All she could tell for sure was that this list seemed to be much more interesting than her and Lilaea, in a typical fit of jealousy, didn't like that one bit.
Professor Snape was pacing the room, parchment in one hand, quill in the other, going through the list over and over again, crossing and adding names at random. The nymph sighed. He had been doing that for quite some time now, in fact almost the entire summer break long, so engrossed in his work that he had even forgotten their annual ritual of writing an application for the still vacant position as Defence against the Dark Arts teacher (he was convinced he'd get it eventually, she on the other hand knew that no one would hire the country's most famous Potions Master for a job that didn't involve potions) and Lilaea found that slightly disturbing. What on Earth could be so intriguing that he forgot something as important as that?
"What are you doing?" she asked in a slightly whiny voice. Snape stopped his pacing and stepped in front of the fireplace, placing the parchment on top of it. Bending over, the nymph could now read a couple of upside-down names in tight, cramped yet very neat writing. Many of those names had been crossed out several times and she could barely read them, but she recognized most of them as the names of students currently attending Hogwarts. She noticed that all of them were girls who would begin their 4th, 5th and 6th year this summer, but not one of them had been sorted into Slytherin. In fact, a disturbingly high number of them seemed to be...
"Hufflepuffs? What are you doing with a list full of Hufflepuffs?" she asked him incredulous.
"I'm going to hook Draco Malfoy up with one of these girls," Severus answered calmly.
"I'm sorry... have you gone mental?" the nymph inquired after a moment's pause.
"I most certainly have not, I am merely preparing to do what has to be done to make Lucius join the order," he replied.
"Well in that case I am really sorry, but you indeed have gone mental – hate to break it to you," she said, shaking her head.
"You don't know Lucius," Severus retorted.
"No, you don't know him."
"Which one of us is stuck inside a picture frame and thus didn't go to school with him?" he asked and Lilaea bit her lip. "Thought so," he added.
"That hurt," the nymph finally said. For a few minutes none of them spoke then the potions master softly murmured "sorry".
"He said the day he'd join Dumbledore would be the day Draco would confess his undying love to a muggle-born witch," Snape murmured eventually, crossing another name from the list.
"Who said that?" the nymph asked as if nothing had happened.
"Lucius did."
"He really said it that nicely?" she asked, looking impressed.
"No, he actually didn't but that's beside the point. It's the message that counts, not the way it is wrapped up."
"Uh-huh, right. And you're...?" Lilaea began.
"I'm going to take him by his word," Snape answered her unspoken question, nodding his head. He scribbled down another name.
"You know... I would feel a whole lot better if you'd go and see the nurse about this. You seem a little... delirious," the portrait said carefully.
"What do you mean 'delirious'?" he asked, raising his eyes to meet hers.
"Well... the words that come out of your mouth are definitely English and I can understand each and every single one of them, but when you string them together to a sentence I'm afraid they don't make any sense." Snape snorted.
"Thank you very much for your concern, but I feel fine," he replied, picking up the parchment and turning away from the fire place. The nymph frowned.
"I didn't mean it that way," she said. "Well... yes I did, but ... don't go all sulky now!"
But Severus didn't hear her. "Hmm... Sally-Anne Perks. Who was that again?" he wondered aloud.
"That's the one who wrote that Gillyweed is most frequently found in the Sahara Desert," Lilaea tossed in.
"Hell no," Snape said and crossed her from the list. The nymph sighed.
"Why don't you just brew a love potion... let's say Love Potion No. 9, let Draco have some and then set him up with some random witch?" she asked.
"No potions, Lilaea. No spells or talismans either. I want it to be the real thing," Severus replied.
"The real thing? Well in that case, shouldn't you be starting out with someone he cares for?" the nymph inquired.
"Haven't you been paying attention? I said Draco as in 'my godson Draco'. He doesn't care – not for any muggle-born witches anyway," he snapped.
"There are different kinds of caring," the nymph stated smugly. "You for example care a lot for James Potter and Sirius Black," she said.
"No I don't. I hate them, both of them, and you know that!" Severus replied vehemently.
"See. You care enough to hate them," came the triumphant reply from the portrait. The potions master's eyes darted from the smiling nymph to the list.
"You mean instead of hooking him up with someone he's presently indifferent to I ought to pick someone he... hates?" he asked cautiously.
"Exactly."
"Well, that narrows the field of competitors down considerably," Snape said after checking through a mental list of all females he knew Draco hated with a passion, most of whom he had already put on his list. He sighed and began crossing the other names.
"Who?" the portrait asked.
"These," he said through grit teeth as he held the list out for the nymph to read.
"Well I guess we have a winner," she laughed but Severus Snape didn't feel like laughing at all.