Chapter four: Music of the Night
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"Pay attention, Deirdre!"
The tiny seven year old looked up from the window. She had been daydreaming again. Aunt Janelle wouldn't like that, she could already tell by the shrill sound of her aunt's voice, mingling with her sharp French accent.
"Deirdre Elizabeth Ashcroft, I'm not here teaching you everything you could possibly need to know about becoming a proper young lady, to have you daydreaming! Are you going to do that when you're a married woman? Your husband's going to want a lovely young lady who can sing and perform only the best of magic!" The tall, middle-aged French woman in the corner scoffed at her niece, turning up her dainty pointed nose so her clear blue eyes looked away in distress. Aunt Janelle was a pretty woman - thin, tall and blonde. She was extremely proper, hung up in the old-fashioned ways of when her mother was a girl. Deirdre seemed to get her good looks from her; though as fair as she was, the small girl was dark.
"Aunty, that's silly! I'm not getting married for like a gazillion years!" the little girl, Deirdre, said with a small nervous giggle – yet looked ashamed that her aunt had yelled at her as she blushed, tears springing to her dark eyes.
"Oh, pish-posh child. The time will come before you know it. Even sooner if your father is keeping his plans," she said, shaking her golden locks at the child.
"But why can't I go play with the other kids, please? Pretty please?" Deirdre pleaded with her aunt, giving her the most angelic look she could muster, and when Janelle had shaken her head yet again, the seven year old pouted and started to cry.
"What in the world is all this fuss!"
Standing in the doorway, was Deirdre's father, Marius Ashcroft Avery, or as he went these days, Avery Ashcroft. It was quite complicated as to why he had switched his family's last name to his mother's maiden name, but it wasn't very important. He was a tall man, with slicked back dark hair and dark stubble of a beard. His expression was never that of love, to say the very least; usually it was more disappointed in something.
"Daddy! Auntie Janelle won't let me play with the other kids!" the small girl sobbed, running to her father. He rolled his eyes as he looked down at her.
"Janelle, get this brat under control or I swear I will…"
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"Miss Ashcroft? Hello…?"
Deirdre looked up out of a slight daze, for a moment she had forgotten where she was. Then it all came back to her and she remembered where she was and why. Looking down she saw a stool beneath her feet, and a thousand eyes staring back at her when she looked out over the tables. She shivered slightly at the dark atmosphere of the place. It was dismal, a lot like her home. Thunderclouds rumbled softly overheard on the enchanted ceiling, and the candlelight flickered, but it didn't have much life to it. It was dreary, as if the candles were too depressed to flicker with the full force that they usually possessed. Overall the atmosphere of the room was droll. Of course, the newcomer was quite dull when it came to last year's proceedings and had really no inkling of how Dumbledore's death had affected the school and students.
Professor McGonagall looked down in disapproval. "You don't mind that I start now, do you?" she asked curtly, holding a hat in her hands. Deirdre looked at the ragged old thing in disgust.
"You want me to put that on my head?" she asked, causing a majority of the students in the hall to laugh. The Headmistress rolled her eyes impatiently.
"Yes, Miss Ashcroft, now if you will just…" she said, then placed the hat on her head.
She felt odd for a moment, like this… this thing was reading her mind, every single emotion she'd ever felt displayed right there for her to see. And it was speaking to her!
"Yes… you have a plan here, don't you? Ah, a great plan… ambition in it… yes… cunning… but what's this? Loyalty… hmm… unwavering… and your heart. Romantic, eh? Wishful thinker? But I sense tragedy… I sense violence… and sorrow along with this pretty little head…" it whispered to her, causing the girl to shiver.
"Devestation…" it said. Then finally: "SLYTHERIN!" There was applause and cheering from the Slytherins themselves, but when the hat was taken off her head, Deirdre just stared blankly up at Professor McGonagall.
"Well, do sit down, Miss. Ashcroft," she said, motioning to the Slytherin table.
"Where?"
There was a roar of laughter from around the hall as McGonagall heaved a sigh and pointed to the table on the far left of the hall. The girl stood, a flush on her face as she walked towards the table, taking an empty seat near the end.
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"Did you see her face! What a dolt!" Pansy Parkinson snorted, along with a shriek of laughter as she sat with Draco. "Doesn't know what Slytherins are, is she mental?"
"Perhaps," Draco answered, rolling his eyes at Pansy's laughter. "I've heard that name some where… I know I have…" he mumbled, his eyes resting on Deirdre from his end of the table.
Finally it registered. The girl. It was her! The mysterious female haunting his dreams.
He cursed under his breath; the ruddy little demon! She was following him, everywhere he went he saw her. It was almost unbearable. He fell asleep at night with her cold and terrified gaze lingering in the back of his mind. It was so unfair!
"Parkinson… do you ever shut up?" Draco couldn't help but snapping at her obscenely obnoxious remarks about the newcomer. Her squeaky voice was already getting on his nerves and it was only the first day back…
"Oh, relax, Drake darling, I'm just having a bit of fun! Oh, Dianna! I mean – Deirdre, come here, we have an extra seat!" Pansy called out with a fake smile, Draco rolling his eyes as she did so.
Deirdre had glanced their way, with a slightly amused but cautious look, she moved to the empty seat next to Pansy.
"So, you're home schooled?" she asked her in a sickeningly sweet tone of voice. Deirdre nodded her reply, focusing her eyes on the oak table in front of her. Draco saw her eyes flick to him for a moment, and he felt that same stare – like she was burning a hole into his forehead.
"Why? Who taught you? Your mother?" she sneered, looking at Deirdre as if she were retarded. Draco tuned himself out of the conversation, but he was sure Deirdre was being verbally abused by Pansy and her gang just from the look on her face.
"You know what, shut your sodding mouth!" she finally snapped at Pansy, and Draco noticed her cheeks had flushed a light pink colour. Probably tormenting the poor girl to no end. Wait, Poor? What in bloody hell am I thinking?
Fed up, Deirdre narrowed her dark eyes at Pansy, in a way that reminded Draco of his aunt Bellatrix. A slow, incessantly sweet smile crossed the girl's doll-like face for a moment.
"By the way, love, you might want to do something about that mask. It's not polite to wear Muggle items in school," she said innocently, and before standing, she had managed to knock the pudding into Pansy's lap. Amidst the Slytherin's shrieks, Draco smirked lightly as he watched Deirdre run from the hall.
Odd, he thought. But it serves her right.
In the end Draco could care less about whether the girl was off crying her eyes out or making plans of revenge on Parkinson. What mattered now was that he somehow ignore the eyes of every student on him, the hushed whisper and gossip, and most of all the paranoia that they were always talking about him.
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If there was one thing he found unnerving about coming back to Hogwarts, it was that the Ministry forced him to keep up his Prefect duties. Perhaps it was to keep an eye on him, maybe even try and reform him. Hah. Like that would ever happen. Draco sighed as he rounded the dark corridor hall of the first floor, checking to make sure no little first years were out of bed.
The light from the torches reflected on the stone walls as if they were dancing, their red-orange flames flickering back and forth almost tauntingly. They were almost a lullaby to Draco, and he wanted to sleep. They created little warmth however, and perhaps that was the only thing keeping Draco awake. His pace slowed as he rounded yet another corner, hard soled shoes creating a pattern that was almost rhythmic. Tap, tap, tap, tap.. Ironically enough, he liked the sound. It was something to listen to other than the eerie silence of Hogwarts at night.
This was the part of his job he hated – the silence. Normally there were people all around him, talking and jeering and making lewd jokes about Gryffindors. Even at home he heard the constant leering of his father's portrait, the constant hustle and bustle of servants and House Elves rushing back and forth. The silence was almost unbearable, and it left his mind wandering to all those horrid things he'd planned. All those horrid things he'd seen, and all the times he'd been reprimanded for the smallest offence. He could recall Lucius' livid look when he messed up his fourth year, and Narcissa had to come and find him on the train. He remembered the words Lucius had snarled, and the punishment he'd gone through. None of it was pleasant, none of it at all.
Just then, Draco was jolted from his thoughts at the sound of… what was that? It sounded like a voice – it sounded like a girl.
Who on earth would be up at this time of night? Draco thought, slowing his pace once more to make his tread quieter. Curiosity piqued, he had to see what it was.
It was a girl singing. Yes, definitely that was it. It sounded familiar… he'd heard it before.
Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour
Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender
Hearing is believing
Music is deceiving
Hard as lightning, soft as candlelight
Dare you trust the music of the night
Close your eyes for your eyes will only tell the truth
And the truth isn't what you want to see
In the dark it is easy to pretend
That the truth is what it ought to be
Softly, deftly, music shall caress you
Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you
Open up your mind
Let your fantasies unwind
In this darkness that you know you cannot fight
The darkness of the music of the night
Draco raised an eyebrow as he listened, stepping closer with every note the girl hit. There was a tone to her voice that was enticing; it had a slight air that Professor Trelawney might have when she was predicting Harry Potter's immediate and gruesomely tragic death- well according to those who took Divination. Worthless class. Her voice was well trained and Draco couldn't help but shiver slightly as she hit a trilling high note, almost like an opera singer. As he reached the open doorway his face fell when he noticed who it was.
Merlin, not her again! he thought dismally, as his eyes set on the back view of Deirdre Ashcroft. She was just the person he wanted to see at a late hour of the night giving him the creeps with her singing… not.
Malfoy rolled his eyes, backing away from the door just as she turned around. Lucky he wasn't spotted, but he was very tired all of a sudden…
"Mr. Malfoy! Wake up!"
Draco opened his eyes to see a rather livid looking Headmistress McGonagall standing above him. The lines around her eyes were crinkled in confusion as she looked at the Slytherin. Clearing her throat she shook her head.
"Mr. Malfoy, why are you sleeping in the corridor? Class starts in five minutes!" she said, bewildered. Draco looked around, noticing he had fallen slumped against the wall and was sprawled under a blanket.
A blanket?
He didn't recognize it, nor did he remember how he got here or how he fell asleep. Thinking quickly, he stood, rolling the blanket under his arm.
"Sorry, Professor… " he started, giving her a regretful smile, "I was so enthralled in my Prefect duties that I simply… fell asleep…" He stalled, "And thank you so much for the blanket, that was really too kind of you," he said, using his own personal type of flattery on her. She raised an eyebrow.
"That blanket does not belong to me, Mr. Malfoy. I'm sure you had it with you, and maybe forgot. Now… don't let this happen again or I will be forced to deduct points. And from a Prefect… how disappointing..." she scoffed, shaking her head before continuing on her way. Draco looked confused as he glanced at the black cotton blanket under his arm. This wasn't his and he'd never seen it before…
A speck of red yarn caught his eye, and he looked down at the corner of the blanket. The initials "D.A." were embroidered in calligraphic writing. Draco groaned as his thoughts came back to him in a whirlwind. He couldn't get away, could he?
Looking up once more, Draco glanced back at the form of Professor McGonagall. "Headmistress?" He called bluntly, not bothering with acting polite at all.
"Why exactly do I still have prefect duties?" He asked, it was more of a statement than a question. The headmistress turned, as a hint of a smile spread across her face and Draco wasn't sure if he should be terrified or if he would vomit at the peculiar sight.
"Well Draco," She stated, "there is always a chance to redeem yourself."
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(a/n: ) I'd once more like to thank the amazing Orlaith for putting up with my horrible punctuation, and lack of capitalization. The lyrics used in this chapter are from Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Phantom of the Opera."
Later on in each chapter, I am trying to incorporate a piece of text or lyrics into the story. I like how music and writing can serve as predictions and fit the mood and all that jazz.