Draco was not new to traveling by Portkey, but this trip seemed to take an
awfully long time. At least thirty seconds passed before they landed at
their destination, by which time Draco's head was spinning.
"Why . . . ?" He groaned, feeling suddenly nauseated.
"We had a lot of magical barriers to get through before we could arrive," Tonks explained, nodding at his obviously sickened state. "Makes for a bit of a rougher ride, if you know what I mean,"
Draco looked around. They were in a somewhat shabby—but comfortable looking—house, in the entry way more specifically. A familiar portrait hung on the wall over the cloak rack, but it took Draco a while before he realized why it was familiar.
It was of a stately looking witch with beautiful, dark eyes. Narcissa's eyes, his mum's. The woman was his great grandmother, Abigail Black, pride of the Black family. She was beautiful, but on the rare occasion that Draco had been in his mother's room, the woman had never had anything nice to say. She was bitter, cruel, and critical of every move made before her watchful eye.
But she'd loved Lucius (as many women did) not only because was handsome and charismatic but because he was a pure blood, and filthy, disgustingly rich; a quality all "socially elite" wizards and witches held in high regard.
"Murderer," She hissed disdainfully at Draco from her high position. "Filthy, traitorous, killer. Burn in hell, murderer,"
Draco went red, and felt the back of his neck go cold, sweat breaking out over his skin. He prayed that he wouldn't start shaking, the way he had some nights.
"Come on, Draco," Tonks gave him an encouraging shove towards the hall. "Real crap portrait, don't you think? Real ruddy complexion on that woman."
But even as Draco left the entry way he couldn't help but notice that Mad Eye was staring up at the painting somewhat admiringly. His stomach twisted.
Though not so much as it did when he made his way into the next room where Harry-bloody-Potter stretched over a couch, reading silently from a thin black book labeled, "Quidditch; The Art of Seeking".
Harry looked up as Draco entered the room, and his mouth fell open with surprise. "Tonks," He looked to the witch behind Draco for an explanation.
"Dumbledore wanted to move him here," Tonks said diplomatically. "For safekeeping."
Harry frowned. "Oh,"
Draco felt like scum. True, he'd never liked Harry. True, he'd treated him like crap. But now, as he tried to see himself through the eyes of The Boy Who Lived he realized he'd been nothing but a spoiled prat to Harry, and that even now, under the circumstances, Harry had no respect for him and probably thought Draco had killed his dad in a tantrum, Lucius having refused to give him his way or something. Not that Draco was going to set him straight. Only Dumbledore knew his real reasons, and Draco wasn't about to share them with the world. Even if people wanted to examine the case, label Draco guilty as sin . . . he wasn't going to explain the truthful circumstances because it was none of their damn business.
"Hey, Harry, look at . . ." Ron Weasley stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Draco Malfoy standing in the living room. A glossy Quidditch magazine fell from his hand.
"Draco's going to be staying here, Ron," Harry said in a low, dark voice. It was the voice of someone who was using great control to keep from shouting.
"Ron, did you show him . . ." Hermione entered the room next, but a look of realization came across her face just as quickly as it fell . . . no one needed to tell her, Hermione was sharp enough to figure it out on her own.
But it angered Draco that they'd had no warning. The shock on all of their faces made him uncomfortable and squirmy. Why hadn't someone TOLD them so they could make themselves scarce . . . if that was what they wanted.
"Well, hello," He said quietly, almost inaudibly.
Hermione was the only one to greet him back, and it made him even more sick than Bridget being kind to him after he'd tried to get into her bra. He'd treated Hermione worse than he'd ever treated anyone in his life. And here she was trying to make the best of things, using all the sympathy she could muster just to say hello to him. He was ashamed of himself, more so than he'd ever been in his whole life.
"I'll take you to your room, Draco," Tonks said quickly, ushering him and the floating trunk along. "You can rest on a proper bed, instead of that sad muggle cot you had at the hotel . . ."
The trio of Gryffindors stared at him as he left the room. Draco silently wished he'd just die already . . . life moved too quickly, and in the wrong direction. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.
Tonks led him up several flights of stares into a slightly musty smelling attic with a large, old looking canopy bed in the center of the floor. There was a dresser in front of a boarded up window, and a picture of a lush green valley—the only aspect of the room that hadn't faded with age. But Draco sighed with relief. It was better than the hotel, much better. He could live in this room, be comfortable in it. He might actually sleep a whole night through . . . maybe.
"Listen, Draco," Tonks let the trunk fall to the floor with a thump. "I know that this is . . . uncomfortable," She glanced back at the door and Draco realized even she didn't like being alone with him. "And it'll be hard, very hard for you. But keep in mind that school is coming soon. So this won't last . . . too long."
Draco nodded. Tonks smiled, in an almost sincere, cheerful way. "Hang in there, kid. Things will get better."
Draco appreciated the effort, but couldn't help but feel that it was as fake as her hair color. Things weren't going to get better. He'd committed a terrible crime, and was guilty of dozens more against Potter and his friends. No one could forgive him or even begin to understand why he was the way he was. It was pointless to even hope. He might as well forget about it.
Draco reached into his pocket and pulled Nimm, who was sleeping, and the scarf out. Setting them both on the bed, he took off his coat and dropped it to the floor, slipped out of his shoes, took off his shirt, and slid underneath the thick comforter on the bed, scarf wrapped around one hand and Nimm sleeping on the other.
He lay there forever, never closing his eyes.
How could he sleep in the same house where Potter, Weasley, and the Granger girl were no doubt talking about his despicable nature, maybe even how they wished Lucius had got the better of him. Did they want him dead? Why not? He was of no value to them and he'd only ever caused them misery, and had he not just wished for death himself?
Was there anyone who was glad he was still alive anymore?
Draco shivered at the question and it's likely answer. He couldn't think like that anymore. He wouldn't make it if he thought like that. Or if he didn't get any sleep. Draco finally closed his eyes and drifted off into a deep rest, not quite peaceful—it seemed heavy and dark—but not the broken, restless sleep he'd been experiencing for the past several weeks.
". . . can't we just have Tonks wake him?"
"Tonks has being dealing with the prat all day. And she's gone now, anyway. We don't have any other choice. We've got to take care of the slimy little bastard."
"Harry, Ron," A voice hissed. "If he's already awake he can hear you—,"
"Like I care what he hears and what he doesn't." Ron snorted.
"I feel crazy being the one to say this," Hermione began in a lecturing tone. "But I think we ought to . . . ought to give him a break."
Ron gasped in disgust.
"I'm not saying I want to be his new best mate," Hermione explained. "But it's possible this whole experience has humbled him a bit. It's possible he' not such a . . . ,"
"Bastard?" Harry offered.
"Shh."
There was a knock on the door, causing Draco to leap out of bed and grab frantically for his shirt. Panicked, he pulled it over his head and called, "Come in,"
Hermione stepped timidly into the room.
"We're going to have dinner now," She said flatly. "If you're hungry you can come down."
"Oh," Draco nodded. "Yeah, I'll be right there."
"Alright," Hermione turned to leave.
"Oh and thanks," Draco called after her, his cheeks reddening. He was presenting himself as the weaker, lesser person. Someone who'd just accepted help from a mudblood. No, not a mudblood. Just a girl. But nevertheless he was at their mercy now.
She turned around, surprised, and Harry and Ron goggled, amazed, from the door.
"You're welcome," She said, and went on her way, head held slightly higher.
Draco opened his trunk and found a clean, non-sweaty shirt. To think; all that he'd already been through today and he still had a dinner with Potter and the Weasel to stare down. No, he mentally corrected. Weasley. And he would live.
All the Weasley's (minus their own personal traitor Percy), plus Alastor, Hermione, Harry, and Remus Lupin sat around a large wooden table set with enough food for a group three times as large as the one partaking in the feast. Draco's stomach gurgled noisily, and every last person at the table looked up to see the cause of the intrusion. And it was him, Draco. He'd interrupted the happy little picture, and despite his hunger, he felt slightly sorry that he'd bothered coming down at all.
After a moment of silence Molly Weasley spoke, "Why don't you have a seat, Draco?" She shot a look at Fred and George, and George reached behind him, grabbing an empty chair from in back, and dragging it into the space next to him.
Draco walked slowly to the chair, feeling as though he was weighted down with lead.
He served himself and ate slowly, tasting everything very carefully and finding it all to his liking. Most of the table watched him intently while they ate—Ginny Weasley had stopped eating all together and just stared, fixated as he shoveled roasted chicken breast into his mouth. It was scary—but Draco knew that this was part of the process, part of his punishment for being, just as Harry said, a bastard his whole life.
"Excellent meal," He said softly, feeling very self conscious. "Thank you Mrs. Weasley."
Mrs. Weasley looked pleased at the complement at least and gave Draco a half smile. "You're very welcome, Draco."
Ron hmphed, and the twins rolled their eyes, but Draco felt slightly better. They hadn't cast any stones at him yet.
As dinner ended, everyone helped with pickup, including Draco, who carried several stacks of plates (after all, there were quite a few people present) into the kitchen.
Then Lupin and Mad-Eye departed, shouting their farewells to the eight Weasley's, Harry, and Hermione. Draco separated himself from the group, but nodded when Lupin glanced in his direction saying, "Take care,". They, like Draco, were trying to make the best of the fact that Draco was in their presence and while he still felt like offing himself, he did appreciate the effort.
Then everyone congregated in the large living room, carrying books, and a chess board, parchment and quills, and Mrs. Weasley with her knitting.
Draco stood there awkwardly for a while, but finally spoke, his voice cracking a little with the tightness of his vocal chords. "I suppose I'll head up for the night."
They all stopped their activities and stared.
I'm gonna fling myself out the bloody window, Draco thought as he stood there feeling stupid. Then, but wait, I can't. He reminded himself. These windows are all boarded shut.
And then a miracle occurred, something Draco would never forget, would be grateful for all his life.
"G'night, Malfoy," Harry said as genuinely as he could. And, taking Harry's lead, a few more mumbled "G'nights" and a "Sleep well," came from the rest of the family.
Draco could feel his eyes aching, and he wondered why he felt so much like crying since nothing sad had happened. But it was happening, he was going to dissolve into tears.
"G'night everyone," He replied, and left as fast as he could, running up the stairs, flying into his room, shutting the door and then locking it with a charm he hoped no one could break.
And then he fell to his knees in tears.
Draco hadn't cried since he was three, and getting spanked by his nursemaid for flinging hots coals at her. But now, at age sixteen, the tears poured out of him in heaving waves and they didn't stop for nearly half an hour.
They did slow down enough, however, that he could crawl onto his bed and bury his face in the pillow.
Not that he needed to. Draco was the kind of person who cried silently. His cheeks became damp and his eyes slightly red but he didn't make a sound. Burying his face in the pillow was just an impulse. In case he accidentally sobbed aloud. After all, he hadn't done this in fourteen years, and he wasn't quite sure what to expect.
When it was finally over, he stood up, undressed, and climbed into bed. He didn't sleep—but he'd known that was coming. There were too many feelings clambering around inside of him, crying to be examined further. So he propped the pillows for hours of deep thinking, and lit a small light at the bedside. Because the dark promised dangerous and hurtful thoughts. If he could keep the small lamp going he might be able to get through the night without shaking, breaking into a cold sweat . . .
Draco wondered if Harry felt like this every night. Did he think about everything for agonizing periods of time? Was his life so fast paced and out of control seeming that he had to set aside time just for sitting? Did he wake up when the room was black, screaming at something—someone, in Draco's case—that wasn't there, that was dead? Funny, how after only a few weeks he had new sympathy for everything the Boy-Who-Lived had been through.
In fact, they had a LOT in common all of the sudden. Starting with the fact that they were both orphans . . .
Well, Draco wasn't TECHNICALLY an orphan. Narcissa still lived. But she'd abandoned him completely and he didn't hold onto any hope of ever seeing or hearing from her again. She hadn't loved Lucius . . . anyone who actually knew and lived with him couldn't love him, because it was revealed to them what a monster he was. But there was still the remaining death eaters to worry about, and of course, the dark lord. If it appeared that she sided with Draco or helped him in any way, she'd be in just as much danger. Lucius had been one of Voldemort's favorites, and in order to avoid swift death she, too, would have been banished to that hotel.
And then Draco would never have become intimate (well as intimate as you could get in just a few hours of conversation and brief snogging) with Bridget.
Yes, Bridget, he hadn't dragged HER out of the memory closet for a few hours. Was it really just this morning that he'd been with her, talking to her, kissing her, touching her perfect, warm stomach . . . Draco stopped, picking up his last thought and looking at it a bit closer, trying to remember the details. No one had ever let him touch them like that, still kissing him with utmost trust and the tenderest of care.
Not surprisingly his family had never been affectionate, and if Narcissa or Lucius had ever held him, hugged him, or kissed him . . . it was not in his memory. And Pansy, well, she WISHED that Draco would fondle her a bit. But she was unattractive in too many ways to count, and thinking about her didn't give Draco the electric jolt in his chest like Bridget did. He didn't get that warm, burning sensation in his stomach (and admittedly, his lower regions).
Was it love? No, he'd known her for a remarkably short time. But it was his first serious infatuation, and he could not help but imagine what it might have been like if Bridget had let him bed her.
Bed. Hadn't his been warmer the last two nights? What was missing?
Nimm. His cat. Of whom he'd grown fairly fond, since she'd stuck with him through several of the hardest points, sweet furry beast . . .
"Nimm?" He climbed out of bed and began looking around. He should have kept a closer watch on her, taken more care and notice of her. "Nimm, where are you kitten?" He clicked his tongue, hoping it would attract the small cat.
But she wasn't under the bed or the dresser or in the closet. She was gone. His kitten was gone, and now he'd be all alone, facing his problems without so much as a fuzzy bundle to sleep next to . . .
"Are you looking for your cat?" Harry stood in the doorway with the kitten in his arms, trying not to ignore the fact that Draco was in his boxers and keep a straight face.
"Why . . . ?" He groaned, feeling suddenly nauseated.
"We had a lot of magical barriers to get through before we could arrive," Tonks explained, nodding at his obviously sickened state. "Makes for a bit of a rougher ride, if you know what I mean,"
Draco looked around. They were in a somewhat shabby—but comfortable looking—house, in the entry way more specifically. A familiar portrait hung on the wall over the cloak rack, but it took Draco a while before he realized why it was familiar.
It was of a stately looking witch with beautiful, dark eyes. Narcissa's eyes, his mum's. The woman was his great grandmother, Abigail Black, pride of the Black family. She was beautiful, but on the rare occasion that Draco had been in his mother's room, the woman had never had anything nice to say. She was bitter, cruel, and critical of every move made before her watchful eye.
But she'd loved Lucius (as many women did) not only because was handsome and charismatic but because he was a pure blood, and filthy, disgustingly rich; a quality all "socially elite" wizards and witches held in high regard.
"Murderer," She hissed disdainfully at Draco from her high position. "Filthy, traitorous, killer. Burn in hell, murderer,"
Draco went red, and felt the back of his neck go cold, sweat breaking out over his skin. He prayed that he wouldn't start shaking, the way he had some nights.
"Come on, Draco," Tonks gave him an encouraging shove towards the hall. "Real crap portrait, don't you think? Real ruddy complexion on that woman."
But even as Draco left the entry way he couldn't help but notice that Mad Eye was staring up at the painting somewhat admiringly. His stomach twisted.
Though not so much as it did when he made his way into the next room where Harry-bloody-Potter stretched over a couch, reading silently from a thin black book labeled, "Quidditch; The Art of Seeking".
Harry looked up as Draco entered the room, and his mouth fell open with surprise. "Tonks," He looked to the witch behind Draco for an explanation.
"Dumbledore wanted to move him here," Tonks said diplomatically. "For safekeeping."
Harry frowned. "Oh,"
Draco felt like scum. True, he'd never liked Harry. True, he'd treated him like crap. But now, as he tried to see himself through the eyes of The Boy Who Lived he realized he'd been nothing but a spoiled prat to Harry, and that even now, under the circumstances, Harry had no respect for him and probably thought Draco had killed his dad in a tantrum, Lucius having refused to give him his way or something. Not that Draco was going to set him straight. Only Dumbledore knew his real reasons, and Draco wasn't about to share them with the world. Even if people wanted to examine the case, label Draco guilty as sin . . . he wasn't going to explain the truthful circumstances because it was none of their damn business.
"Hey, Harry, look at . . ." Ron Weasley stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Draco Malfoy standing in the living room. A glossy Quidditch magazine fell from his hand.
"Draco's going to be staying here, Ron," Harry said in a low, dark voice. It was the voice of someone who was using great control to keep from shouting.
"Ron, did you show him . . ." Hermione entered the room next, but a look of realization came across her face just as quickly as it fell . . . no one needed to tell her, Hermione was sharp enough to figure it out on her own.
But it angered Draco that they'd had no warning. The shock on all of their faces made him uncomfortable and squirmy. Why hadn't someone TOLD them so they could make themselves scarce . . . if that was what they wanted.
"Well, hello," He said quietly, almost inaudibly.
Hermione was the only one to greet him back, and it made him even more sick than Bridget being kind to him after he'd tried to get into her bra. He'd treated Hermione worse than he'd ever treated anyone in his life. And here she was trying to make the best of things, using all the sympathy she could muster just to say hello to him. He was ashamed of himself, more so than he'd ever been in his whole life.
"I'll take you to your room, Draco," Tonks said quickly, ushering him and the floating trunk along. "You can rest on a proper bed, instead of that sad muggle cot you had at the hotel . . ."
The trio of Gryffindors stared at him as he left the room. Draco silently wished he'd just die already . . . life moved too quickly, and in the wrong direction. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.
Tonks led him up several flights of stares into a slightly musty smelling attic with a large, old looking canopy bed in the center of the floor. There was a dresser in front of a boarded up window, and a picture of a lush green valley—the only aspect of the room that hadn't faded with age. But Draco sighed with relief. It was better than the hotel, much better. He could live in this room, be comfortable in it. He might actually sleep a whole night through . . . maybe.
"Listen, Draco," Tonks let the trunk fall to the floor with a thump. "I know that this is . . . uncomfortable," She glanced back at the door and Draco realized even she didn't like being alone with him. "And it'll be hard, very hard for you. But keep in mind that school is coming soon. So this won't last . . . too long."
Draco nodded. Tonks smiled, in an almost sincere, cheerful way. "Hang in there, kid. Things will get better."
Draco appreciated the effort, but couldn't help but feel that it was as fake as her hair color. Things weren't going to get better. He'd committed a terrible crime, and was guilty of dozens more against Potter and his friends. No one could forgive him or even begin to understand why he was the way he was. It was pointless to even hope. He might as well forget about it.
Draco reached into his pocket and pulled Nimm, who was sleeping, and the scarf out. Setting them both on the bed, he took off his coat and dropped it to the floor, slipped out of his shoes, took off his shirt, and slid underneath the thick comforter on the bed, scarf wrapped around one hand and Nimm sleeping on the other.
He lay there forever, never closing his eyes.
How could he sleep in the same house where Potter, Weasley, and the Granger girl were no doubt talking about his despicable nature, maybe even how they wished Lucius had got the better of him. Did they want him dead? Why not? He was of no value to them and he'd only ever caused them misery, and had he not just wished for death himself?
Was there anyone who was glad he was still alive anymore?
Draco shivered at the question and it's likely answer. He couldn't think like that anymore. He wouldn't make it if he thought like that. Or if he didn't get any sleep. Draco finally closed his eyes and drifted off into a deep rest, not quite peaceful—it seemed heavy and dark—but not the broken, restless sleep he'd been experiencing for the past several weeks.
". . . can't we just have Tonks wake him?"
"Tonks has being dealing with the prat all day. And she's gone now, anyway. We don't have any other choice. We've got to take care of the slimy little bastard."
"Harry, Ron," A voice hissed. "If he's already awake he can hear you—,"
"Like I care what he hears and what he doesn't." Ron snorted.
"I feel crazy being the one to say this," Hermione began in a lecturing tone. "But I think we ought to . . . ought to give him a break."
Ron gasped in disgust.
"I'm not saying I want to be his new best mate," Hermione explained. "But it's possible this whole experience has humbled him a bit. It's possible he' not such a . . . ,"
"Bastard?" Harry offered.
"Shh."
There was a knock on the door, causing Draco to leap out of bed and grab frantically for his shirt. Panicked, he pulled it over his head and called, "Come in,"
Hermione stepped timidly into the room.
"We're going to have dinner now," She said flatly. "If you're hungry you can come down."
"Oh," Draco nodded. "Yeah, I'll be right there."
"Alright," Hermione turned to leave.
"Oh and thanks," Draco called after her, his cheeks reddening. He was presenting himself as the weaker, lesser person. Someone who'd just accepted help from a mudblood. No, not a mudblood. Just a girl. But nevertheless he was at their mercy now.
She turned around, surprised, and Harry and Ron goggled, amazed, from the door.
"You're welcome," She said, and went on her way, head held slightly higher.
Draco opened his trunk and found a clean, non-sweaty shirt. To think; all that he'd already been through today and he still had a dinner with Potter and the Weasel to stare down. No, he mentally corrected. Weasley. And he would live.
All the Weasley's (minus their own personal traitor Percy), plus Alastor, Hermione, Harry, and Remus Lupin sat around a large wooden table set with enough food for a group three times as large as the one partaking in the feast. Draco's stomach gurgled noisily, and every last person at the table looked up to see the cause of the intrusion. And it was him, Draco. He'd interrupted the happy little picture, and despite his hunger, he felt slightly sorry that he'd bothered coming down at all.
After a moment of silence Molly Weasley spoke, "Why don't you have a seat, Draco?" She shot a look at Fred and George, and George reached behind him, grabbing an empty chair from in back, and dragging it into the space next to him.
Draco walked slowly to the chair, feeling as though he was weighted down with lead.
He served himself and ate slowly, tasting everything very carefully and finding it all to his liking. Most of the table watched him intently while they ate—Ginny Weasley had stopped eating all together and just stared, fixated as he shoveled roasted chicken breast into his mouth. It was scary—but Draco knew that this was part of the process, part of his punishment for being, just as Harry said, a bastard his whole life.
"Excellent meal," He said softly, feeling very self conscious. "Thank you Mrs. Weasley."
Mrs. Weasley looked pleased at the complement at least and gave Draco a half smile. "You're very welcome, Draco."
Ron hmphed, and the twins rolled their eyes, but Draco felt slightly better. They hadn't cast any stones at him yet.
As dinner ended, everyone helped with pickup, including Draco, who carried several stacks of plates (after all, there were quite a few people present) into the kitchen.
Then Lupin and Mad-Eye departed, shouting their farewells to the eight Weasley's, Harry, and Hermione. Draco separated himself from the group, but nodded when Lupin glanced in his direction saying, "Take care,". They, like Draco, were trying to make the best of the fact that Draco was in their presence and while he still felt like offing himself, he did appreciate the effort.
Then everyone congregated in the large living room, carrying books, and a chess board, parchment and quills, and Mrs. Weasley with her knitting.
Draco stood there awkwardly for a while, but finally spoke, his voice cracking a little with the tightness of his vocal chords. "I suppose I'll head up for the night."
They all stopped their activities and stared.
I'm gonna fling myself out the bloody window, Draco thought as he stood there feeling stupid. Then, but wait, I can't. He reminded himself. These windows are all boarded shut.
And then a miracle occurred, something Draco would never forget, would be grateful for all his life.
"G'night, Malfoy," Harry said as genuinely as he could. And, taking Harry's lead, a few more mumbled "G'nights" and a "Sleep well," came from the rest of the family.
Draco could feel his eyes aching, and he wondered why he felt so much like crying since nothing sad had happened. But it was happening, he was going to dissolve into tears.
"G'night everyone," He replied, and left as fast as he could, running up the stairs, flying into his room, shutting the door and then locking it with a charm he hoped no one could break.
And then he fell to his knees in tears.
Draco hadn't cried since he was three, and getting spanked by his nursemaid for flinging hots coals at her. But now, at age sixteen, the tears poured out of him in heaving waves and they didn't stop for nearly half an hour.
They did slow down enough, however, that he could crawl onto his bed and bury his face in the pillow.
Not that he needed to. Draco was the kind of person who cried silently. His cheeks became damp and his eyes slightly red but he didn't make a sound. Burying his face in the pillow was just an impulse. In case he accidentally sobbed aloud. After all, he hadn't done this in fourteen years, and he wasn't quite sure what to expect.
When it was finally over, he stood up, undressed, and climbed into bed. He didn't sleep—but he'd known that was coming. There were too many feelings clambering around inside of him, crying to be examined further. So he propped the pillows for hours of deep thinking, and lit a small light at the bedside. Because the dark promised dangerous and hurtful thoughts. If he could keep the small lamp going he might be able to get through the night without shaking, breaking into a cold sweat . . .
Draco wondered if Harry felt like this every night. Did he think about everything for agonizing periods of time? Was his life so fast paced and out of control seeming that he had to set aside time just for sitting? Did he wake up when the room was black, screaming at something—someone, in Draco's case—that wasn't there, that was dead? Funny, how after only a few weeks he had new sympathy for everything the Boy-Who-Lived had been through.
In fact, they had a LOT in common all of the sudden. Starting with the fact that they were both orphans . . .
Well, Draco wasn't TECHNICALLY an orphan. Narcissa still lived. But she'd abandoned him completely and he didn't hold onto any hope of ever seeing or hearing from her again. She hadn't loved Lucius . . . anyone who actually knew and lived with him couldn't love him, because it was revealed to them what a monster he was. But there was still the remaining death eaters to worry about, and of course, the dark lord. If it appeared that she sided with Draco or helped him in any way, she'd be in just as much danger. Lucius had been one of Voldemort's favorites, and in order to avoid swift death she, too, would have been banished to that hotel.
And then Draco would never have become intimate (well as intimate as you could get in just a few hours of conversation and brief snogging) with Bridget.
Yes, Bridget, he hadn't dragged HER out of the memory closet for a few hours. Was it really just this morning that he'd been with her, talking to her, kissing her, touching her perfect, warm stomach . . . Draco stopped, picking up his last thought and looking at it a bit closer, trying to remember the details. No one had ever let him touch them like that, still kissing him with utmost trust and the tenderest of care.
Not surprisingly his family had never been affectionate, and if Narcissa or Lucius had ever held him, hugged him, or kissed him . . . it was not in his memory. And Pansy, well, she WISHED that Draco would fondle her a bit. But she was unattractive in too many ways to count, and thinking about her didn't give Draco the electric jolt in his chest like Bridget did. He didn't get that warm, burning sensation in his stomach (and admittedly, his lower regions).
Was it love? No, he'd known her for a remarkably short time. But it was his first serious infatuation, and he could not help but imagine what it might have been like if Bridget had let him bed her.
Bed. Hadn't his been warmer the last two nights? What was missing?
Nimm. His cat. Of whom he'd grown fairly fond, since she'd stuck with him through several of the hardest points, sweet furry beast . . .
"Nimm?" He climbed out of bed and began looking around. He should have kept a closer watch on her, taken more care and notice of her. "Nimm, where are you kitten?" He clicked his tongue, hoping it would attract the small cat.
But she wasn't under the bed or the dresser or in the closet. She was gone. His kitten was gone, and now he'd be all alone, facing his problems without so much as a fuzzy bundle to sleep next to . . .
"Are you looking for your cat?" Harry stood in the doorway with the kitten in his arms, trying not to ignore the fact that Draco was in his boxers and keep a straight face.