Disclaimer: Characters and story background belong to J.K. Rowling and any other cooperation that may own them. I take no credit for the Harry Potter universe, I make no money off this story or any other related fandom activity in which I participate. This is simply for the pure enjoyment of myself and others. Any other copyrighted work that appears in the story and its following chapters belongs to that credit author and not me. Plot idea and the writing itself originate from me however and are not plagiarized from any other author on the internet. If there is a disagreement, please contact me at livingwater89 at yahoo dot com (insert appropriate symbols).
Title: In Myself I Trust
Author: INV (my initials for the curious) or Livingwater as I use to call myself in my high school days…wince what a stupid name now that I think about it.
Rating: M for violence, sexual scenes (abiding by rules), and profanities. Warnings most likely will increase as the story progresses. This story contains slash as well as hetero couplings, manipulations and attempts at philosophical points of view. If any of this may offend please take note and proceed with caution.
Summary: Draco is a bigger player in the political and social world then Harry or anyone believed possible. The side he is working for? His own of course. His goal? To secure Harry and defeat anyone in his way, dark or light. He is a Malfoy, born into the world of manipulation and no one plays the game better than the young dragon himself. Anyone who opposes him is simply to be exterminated, pure blood or muggle. It matters not. After all, as long as Draco gets what he wants what does he care about the affairs of others? This is a short section within a larger story that I am working on and has not been beta read by anyone except myself. Criticism is welcomed with open arms, and flames, while not necessarily not the most helpful of reviews scare me not. I'm trying out different styles of writing and wish to see how well they are received.
Chapter One: Certainty Deluded
"…If I do not really have the ability to know the truth, I will at least withhold assent from what is false and from what a deceiver may try to put over on me, however powerful and cunning he may be…I will reject whatever is open to the slightest doubt just as though I have found it to be entirely false, and I will continue until I find something certain—even if it is just that nothing is certain."
Meditations by Rene Descartes
"I was so certain." He sounds mad and I can't help but smirk. He doesn't notice, those eyes of his are locked upon my forearm, my inner forearm to be precise, smooth of any blemish, mark, or scar. His left hand still grasps my wrist while the fingers of his right rub up and down along the smoothness of my skin. Trying to peel away the illusion that isn't there—in this I have no deception. "So certain…" He has stopped sounding frustrated, instead he's becoming thoughtful, curious, and oh so very Harry. So very predictable. In a delicious way.
He's going to question me; it's his nature after all. He can't help the way he is.
I wait until he looks up at me, still gripping my arm. I pay that no mind. I'm relaxed, in control, and on top of all events. I wait until I'm looking directly into his eyes, directly into him before answering his next, inevitable question before he opens his mouth.
"A Malfoy is branded by no one, serves no one, and bows to no one."
His eyes open a little, widen. He didn't expect that, his face says it all.
Harry Potter, what a book he presents himself to be. How easy it is to read his pages, to read in between the lines. No wonder Dumbledore manipulates him to such an ease.
"Your father…" He pauses, stalls, licks his lips. I say nothing, my smirk unchanged, still hooking him further into the abyss of curiosity. Such a Gryffindor, my darling Harry Potter.
"Your father has the mark." He finishes, watches for my reaction. I give him nothing but the widening of a smidgen of my smirk.
"My father is a fool. Nothing. Never make the mistake, Harry James Potter, of labeling him as a Malfoy. He's nothing but a means to an end. A stepping stone. Something I walk on."
He drops my arm and takes a nervous step back. His eyes remain wide and open, easy to penetrate. My words confuse him, my tone befuddles him. I feel nothing but a vague sense of disgust towards my father and my voice shows it. I suppose when one denounces their family, a parent who raised them as young, one would be filled with bitterness, a coldness that would chill the very air, or a scorching fury bent on destruction. My father deserved none of such intense emotions. He was a pawn and one does not spend that much energy on mere discard.
Harry would not be able to fathom such thinking. It goes against every nature within his personality. Despite the abuse he was put through by those muggle relatives of his, or perhaps because of it, he hadn't, and most likely still doesn't, possess the ability to simply disregard any person. Not even the worthless mudbloods he has lived with. A person can never be a pawn, a mere object, to dear, dear Harry Potter. It scares him this unfamiliar thinking, scares him the way I simply state such facts without the slightest twinge of guilt. He doesn't understand.
Ah. And lets not forget, what Harry Potter cannot understand, cannot fathom, he blames on Voldemort, the Dark Side, the Slytherin qualities he despises ever so much. And with this blaming comes anger to overpower his shock. Anger is his form of denial and he utilizes it well.
Fists clenched at his sides, he takes a step forward. "How can you talk that way? He's your father!"
Such an easy boy to bait. "He's a tool. Nothing more."
"He raised you! Helped give you life! Not that that says much, the ungrateful, stupid git that you are. But still, he's your father. Don't you feel anything? Can you even feel?" He was upset, and building himself up even more. His magic was stirring restlessly. For when Harry James Potter becomes distressed to an extreme whether in pleasure or pain, anger or joy, his power rises. A mini magical storm forms around him. Such an excess of power, of magic. All I have to do is stand a few feet away from him and his magic begins to feed off into my own. My magic grows stronger, his bleeds into it, the magic slurs and blends. And I grow stronger as well. Addicting, this junkie habit of mine, but effective. And dear, darling Harry never notices. Why should he? I'm not sucking his magic, not stealing what isn't mine, it is his magic that makes mine grow. His magic that stays his alone.
This is my weakness, a weakness I despise, both him and myself for, but a weakness that I can use. I'm not the only one here addicted to this routine of ours. Harry Potter, whether he realizes it or never does, is as well. His magic craves the mingle with my own; I feel it call to me, a constant reminder of what is meant to be.
Malfoys are not stupid. My family started at the bottom of society, the scum that even muggles wouldn't touch. No one remembers, no one cares to except the dusty, hidden tomes in the Malfoy private library, and me of course. My father would not be able to handle the truth. Such a painful truth to such a pure blood activist as himself. Pure blood. There is no such thing. Every great family starts from the bottom, and every great family learns to hide and deny it. The Malfoys use to be the con artists standing on the alley corners, use to be the thief that never was caught, the mugger that slips behind and cuts the throat., the assassin who had no loyalties to any except the gold coin. What made the Malfoy different from every other low-life scum out there was our ability to scheme. We are the canniest of the cunning, the cleverest of the crafty. And we had ambitions. We married right and composed ourselves with style. We climbed up the social ladder until we were on the top. A Malfoy always comes out on top. It was an easy matter to manipulate the population until no one could remember a time when the Malfoy name was not a synonym for wealth, power, and prestige. A manipulation that was so well done that even the members of the family were fooled. But not I. I am a true Malfoy. Unlike my father, unlike my grandfather, unlike many previous generations. I know what being a Malfoy means. It doesn't mean serving Voldemort or bending to Dumbledore.
A Malfoy only has one side he is on, that is his own. And that is why Harry Potter, my sweet little addiction, was to be mine.
I basked in the feel of his magic weaving into my own, keeping myself composed through the sheer discipline I had forged into my very being. "That's not true, Potter. Not true at all. I am human, no matter what else you may say of me, I am human. I feel. I just choose not to feel for what is worthless to me, what has no meaning to me. My feelings for my father do not come even close to how I feel for you. And mark my words Harry Potter, although you may regret my choice, you will not be able to stop yourself from loving it as well. Magic has a deeper language then most would understand."
His face drew together in denial. Anger burst, his magic burst, and I had to stifle my moan. Discipline, Malfoy, discipline. He sputtered words at me, what they were it made no difference. Nothing I hadn't heard from him before, I am sure. But dear God that magic. I turned on my heel and left. His magic trailing after me, calling after me. If I had stayed my control would not have lasted, and one thing that can never happen is me losing control. At least not until I have events to where I need them to be. Soon…but not now…not now.
A/N: I do hope you enjoyed it. Please leave me whatever criticism you may, anything will be helpful. If you wish to contact me off of my email address is livingwater89 at yahoo dot com (insert appropriate symbols). I will be happy to answer any and all questions and concerns.