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"'I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.'"
Draco read the sentence one last time before slamming the book shut.
The truth hurt, and Draco was not immune to this pain. His summer had been far from restful, eons away from enjoyable, but, with a sense of dark irony, he mused it had been enlightening… in a forceful sort of way.
Book in hand, he fell into his soft four-poster bed, bracing himself for another restless night plagued by his own thoughts.
Draco knew hate. He was as familiar with it as the sight of his own neat, yet slanted, signature. Hate had been a core value of his upbringing, his father's lessons in particular; and Draco was no fool, he'd learned hatred well, and quickly.
But it was only recently Draco had begun to understand hate.
At first, he'd blamed Potter, the Order, Dumbledore, that hag Umbridge, and even Snape for his father's downfall and imprisonment… but then there'd been Voldemort's wrath— a wrath he had not simply reserved for Lucius. Draco winced at the memory of his own searing pain, the seeming endlessness of Voldemort's Crucio, and the scraping, biting agony of the Dark Mark branded into his arm.
His blood still boiled at the thought of Potter and his inane band of worshipers, but this feeling, along with the learned blood prejudice, the baseless superiority, and the prideful arrogance of his upbringing— these things were nothing now, laughable, compared to the hatred he felt for Voldemort— his "Dark Lord."
As he stared up into the lofty, darkened canopy of his bed, Draco could barely contain a bark of sarcastic laughter at the thought of the ludicrous title he'd once revered.
Voldemort had forever damaged his father. In truth, Draco hadn't really regarded his father in any positive regard for some time now (in fact, looking back, Draco realized there had been very little to admire about his Lucius' character beyond his ability to garner status and influence, and to help make the Malfoy family even more wealthy), but Voldemort had severed any thread, however bare, of dignity the man might've had left.
Much more painful for Draco to bear was Voldemort's muring of his home, and worse, the reduction of his fierce, intelligent, and elegant mother to nothing more than a dutiful servant.
At least there's something of her left, Draco considered.
His mother had not given up yet; she knew how to put on a good show, to cooperate to survive. She understood how to bide her time, and how to deceive to achieve her ends— all to protect her family, her lineage.
Draco understood now that Voldemort's power and the destruction of his family, at least in part, had been made possible through deception and manipulation; through the guise of his family's very own history of hate. It seemed to Draco to be how Voldemort got most pureblood families to follow him. He saw now that the Malfoy history of hate had made his family— made him— weak.
Voldemort had taken away his independence, and what was more painful, Draco realized just how stupid he'd been, how sheltered and naive— how much of it all had perhaps been his own fault.
He now felt he truly understood what it meant to hate; hate was what he felt for Voldemort.
Draco lifted his sleeve, the pale blue moonlight highlighting the wretched mark on his arm against the paleness of his skin. He loathed it, how it still pained him, and all it represented— but he'd agreed to it. He'd done it to save himself of course, but more than that, to save his mother, his home— to save the Malfoy name, to protect his future. There really hadn't been another choice, at least not in his mind; enter the fold, or die.
I'm probably going to die anyway, Draco thought, for perhaps the thousandth time.
But the Mark had given him time at least— time and chance. He was a Slytherin after all, and he was not one to deny an opportunity, however unpleasant, whatever the vague moral implications, when it presented itself.
The old hate Draco held in his heart and mind was a feeble, gray shadow of what it had once been, shattered fragments of a blackened mirror, leaving indecision, fear, confusion, and pain in the newly empty and unfamiliar blank spaces.
In the past, hatred had made it easy for him to make choices, but he knew things were changing; he was changing. And the changes in his life only seemed to be multiplying at an exponential rate.
And Draco was finding it increasingly more difficult to believe what he'd been told about pureblood superiority. Reluctant as he was to admit it, he could not deny that Granger, for instance, although Muggle-born, was undeniably more magically capable than some of their embarrassingly brainless pureblooded peers.
Draco scowled at the memory of Potter and Weasley's idiotic faces outside Borgin and Burkes.
I'm not sure who's the more daft pair, he thought. Potter and Weasley or Crabbe and Goyle.
Draco thought of his housemates and grimaced. In truth, they were nothing more than followers, pawns— and Draco knew he'd associated with them to stroke his own ego, and to use. He'd love nothing more than to disassociate himself from them, but he considered there was still value in their continued unquestioned obedience.
At least Theo's not daft, Draco mused, as if his fellow Slytherin could hear his thoughts. Although, admittedly, Draco sometimes wondered if Theo could read his mind.
But Theo's frequent presence at Malfoy Manor that summer had prompted Draco to reconsider his friend's intelligence.
Draco was marked, probably destined for failure, and Theo knew it, even though Draco had not described the details of the task Voldemort had given him. He again wondered why Theo seemed particularly insistent on maintaining their friendship— on helping him— when the associated risk was so high.
'"High stakes, high reward,"' Draco remembered Theo claim as he'd wagered dozens of galleons over a game of wizard's chess… on more than one occasion.
But Draco could think of no reward for Theo— for anyone— in being his friend.
As if on cue, there was a knock at his bedroom door. Draco leapt from his bed, drawing his wand; a habit he'd acquired only this summer.
"You can lower your wand, you git," Theo announced as he entered.
"Whoever knew you'd take Mad-Eye's— or I guess Crouch Junior's— advice to heart? Constant vigilance—" Theo mocked as he collapsed into a high-backed chair in the corner of the room. "What a twat— although, I suppose he had his merits— he did turn you into a ferret—"
"Nice to see you too, Theo, as always. Greystoke getting a little too lonely this evening?"
"Father's probably writing right about now," Theo smirked. "Remember it's Nott Estate."
"He's still on about that? Your father's mental if he thinks he's special enough to rename a castle that's older than Hogwarts."
"'Course he's mental. I suppose he wouldn't be quite so intent on renaming the estate if his grandfather hadn't squandered his fortune on dragon eggs… anyway, I'll admit it's true the wizard population at the house has been cut in half now that father has taken up residence at hotel Azkaban… but you know I always have my army of house-elves to keep me company."
Draco knew Theo was joking, but the comment was based in truth. Theo's upbringing had been a rather solitary one, left largely to the care of the castle's battalion of house-elves and a pureblood governess, now long retired, who'd Draco recalled had quite a penchant for making copious quantities of Ogden's Firewhiskey disappear.
"No, I know what it is… you just couldn't wait to see me until tomorrow on the train, could you?" Draco mocked.
"Actually, I can't wait to see your mum—" A devilish grin spread across the Slytherin's face.
"Try me, Nott, go ahead."
Theo laughed, "You know I have the utmost respect for Sissy— she put up with raising you after all. You're awfully touchy— Granger's nasty temper really seems to have rubbed off on you during your little run-in."
"You're giving the mudblood too much credit, I've always had a shit temper," Draco shrugged.
"Valid. Suppose you're just feeling lucky she didn't transfigure you into a fly and trap you in a jar—"
"What?" Draco asked. If this was Theo's attempt at a joke, Draco felt it was a pretty odd one.
"Y'know— a fly. Trapped in a jar. Rumor has it that's what she did to Rita Skeeter after the Tournament."
"And you believe that? I've witnessed Granger get delirious with power for confiscating a first year's dungbombs— but you think she illegally imprisoned someone in a jar?"
"So you think it was that prat, Potter— or, no, must've been Weasley— who had the idea last year, and who managed the tricky magic, to cover Edgecombe's face in pimples— that cleverly spelled 'SNEAK' to boot?" Theo's voice dripped with sarcasm.
Draco bit his lip, attempting to hide his grin at the memory of the sight of Marietta Edgecombe's jinxed face. He reluctantly admitted to himself it was an admirable act, and clearly Granger's work.
I'll have to think of something similar for Crabbe and Goyle this year, he mused. He wasn't about to take any chances with the task that had been thrust upon him.
Or at least I'll have to use her coins, he thought, considering it had no doubt been Granger's invention to modify fake galleons with a Protean charm so that Dumbledore's Army members could secretly communicate. Draco admitted the idea was ingenious, and surprisingly devious, and he fully planned to use the idea for himself, soon enough.
"Granger's a sadist, I'm telling you," Theo said.
"Where is she anyway? Shacking up at the Weasley slum?" Theo's hazel eyes traveled from the sight of Draco's Mark— still raw, red, and throbbing dully, even after all these weeks— to the platinum ring on his finger.
Draco's gaze too found the ring on his right hand, the smooth platinum band glinting cooly in the moonlight. The ring was Goblin-made, a family heirloom his mother had gifted him for his thirteenth birthday. He never took it off.
Looking at it now, he smirked at the memory of Granger in Borgin and Burkes, at the recollection of her palpable indignation, anger, and discomfort; it had been a rare occasion, catching the Gryffindor off-guard and alone. At first, he'd felt a familiar spark of anger at her presence in the shop, knowing she, Potter, and Weasley were meddling where they shouldn't, as always, but in truth, he'd been more annoyed, amused even, at her feeble attempt to get information on him.
He removed the ring to roll it between his fingertips, and failed to suppress the ghost of the feeling of Granger's side pressed against him, the sensation of her narrow waist in his hands, and the subtly warm and floral scent of her as she'd moved her hair to the side.
Draco admitted Hermione had been as awkward as the rest of them during their earlier years at school, and he frowned at the remembered image of his own past appearance. He also admitted to himself that he hadn't truthfully thought her physically ugly in quite some time, despite what he may have verbalized.
And now she's… well— He shook his head, annoyed with himself.
So what? Granger's attractive. Big accomplishment, Draco scoffed internally.
He reasoned a lot of girls at school were attractive in one way or another, although none in particular came to his mind at the moment. He scowled at his own perceived weakness.
Unnoticed by Draco, Theo's eyebrows raised ever higher at his friend's growing silence, curious as to why Draco was suddenly so enamored by his own train of thought about Hermione Granger. But Theo also recognized Draco was more prone to bouts of brooding silence these days, and thought it best not to comment on it— at least not right now.
Draco diverted his attention back to the task at hand and peered at the script now visible inside his ring: it read 'The Burrow.'
When he'd touched the necklace to his ring at Borgin's, it had linked the two, as he had known it would—it was a special thing about Goblin-made platinum. Wherever the necklace went, Draco would know. His father and mother had a few pieces themselves.
"Of course she's there, Potter too, no doubt— where else would they be?"
"Useful to be able to be to keep an eye on "The Chosen One" this year," Theo shrugged. "It's just an added perk you'll get to know when Granger's headed for the Prefects' bathroom, eh?"
Draco balked, masking the warmth now spreading involuntarily through his core at the imagery.
"Oh, please— just because she's a mudblood… that's where we differ, you and I— I'm not one to deny physical beauty when I see it… too much work, totally impractical. In fact, I think I've got quite the eye for it— just call me an artist," Theo smirked.
"Bullshit artist," Draco smirked at his own retort.
Despite Theo's use of the word, Draco knew his friend didn't really believe in the idea that blood purity somehow made you more magically competent— he knew because they'd argued about it on more than one occasion over the years. But Theo also wasn't one to deny the influence and privilege— and undeniable safety— that came with pureblood status, nor with pretending like you did in fact believe in the superiority of magical blood purity, particularly when your father was a Death Eater.
"And here I thought our friendship was really making progress."
Admittedly, their friendship had made Draco realize that he'd never actually experienced friendship beyond that of Theo Nott's. Although he would never say so, he was glad to have an equal.
'"It doesn't hurt to have an ally."'
His mother's word rang through his mind, words she had told him on more than one occasion, particularly as of late.
Draco admitted Theo was as close to an ally as anyone, but his friend did not bear the Mark— he had not been called to serve for his father's failures. And although Theo had his pureblood name, vaults full of gold, an expansive estate full of house elves and rare valuables— and now, Malfoy and Black heirlooms as well— Draco wasn't about to drag his friend into his own mess, which would effectively take away what Draco saw as Theo's only possession of true value— his freedom.
Are any of us really free though? Draco wondered, knowing the war would probably come for Theo eventually.
Draco chucked the leather-bound book he'd been reading across the room, aiming for Theo's head, but he caught it without flinching.
As Theo began to flip through said book, Draco again diverted his attention to his ring.
He knew it would soon read 'King's Cross,' then 'Hogwarts' Express.' But he didn't need his ring to know where Granger would be; in fact, she'd likely be right in front of him on the train, for the Prefect's meeting.
He pictured her sitting across from him in the train compartment, bloody Weasley flanking her as always— how he'd been made a prefect, Draco would never understand— her arms would likely be across her chest, and she'd be glaring at him with her brown eyes, irate the necklace was still around her neck. His smirk returned as he pictured the necklace gleaming against her smooth skin…
He still wasn't sure what had possessed him to act in such a way in Borgin's, especially when his instinct had been to hex all three of them— Potter, Granger, and Weasley— take their wands, and be on his way. But he supposed the seed of change growing inside him had prompted him to reconsider— to choose more wisely.
It was satisfying to know that he now he had a means to keep an eye on Potter's whereabouts, something he hoped to use to his advantage, but he'd left Knockturn Alley feeling a confusing mess of fear, anger, and most absurdly— envy of Potter and Weasley. But he'd also felt deeply curious of Granger's rather restrained reaction, and empowered by his control of the situation.
Draco sighed and slid the ring back on his finger.
"So you're enjoying this blood-traitor propaganda I gave you, I see?" Theo said, referencing the book in his hand. It was the burgundy-covered book Theo had lent him, a book that summarized recent magical blood research, and questioned the idea of the power of blood purity. He'd noticed his disowned aunt's name among the list of contributing researchers.
"Best to try to understand all perspectives of an issue, wouldn't you say? There's power in it," replied Draco, although he wasn't really sure he believed in such things.
"Forget Granger— sounds like I'm rubbing off on you. I'm touched," Theo held a hand to his heart in jest.
Draco rolled his eyes, despite the shred of truth in Theo's statement.
Theo thirsted for knowledge of all kinds, but was also deeply skeptical. He wasn't without his biases, but Draco recognized Theo had always been better at setting aside his family's history of prejudice and hate to form opinions of his own. It was something Draco respected; relying on your own intelligence and ingenuity, forging your own path.
But Theo had certainly suffered for it over the years, most often at the hand of his own father. Draco winced at the childhood memories Theo's father's "parenting" style.
"How does a book like this even survive in your father's house?"
"I'm not sure he knows how to read, actually—" Theo replied.
"Okay, let me rephrase. How does a book like this exist in the castle's library at all? The Burkes were pureblood, too."
"Good question, Draco," Theo chimed as though he were teaching a lesson. "It's true my mums family, the ancestral proprietors of Greystoke, were rather ardent believers in pureblood superiority. But, I'd argue that was not their greatest value."
Draco rolled his eyes.
"It disturbs me you have yet to memorize my mum's family's creed— Scientia sit potentia" explained Theo, as if this were obvious.
"Knowledge…" Draco began, partially recognizing the phrase.
"'Knowledge is power,'" Theo shrugged.
"Seems your family's gone a bit off-course over the years— the knowledge part in particular," Draco smirked.
"Well, the Nott family creed is 'Perdere impura…' destroy the impure. The 'impure' being Muggles, mudbloods, and blood traitors of course," Theo sighed in exasperation. "So I won't deny your theory has some merit. Anyway, you'll be a master manipulator in no time, my young apprentice. You've already begun with that necklace, and your recent literary review. Now, let's talk about the task our omnipotent overlord's given you—"
"—do you really want to lose another duel over this, Nott? I'm tired. Go home."
"You know I could help you. Father says I'm smart—"
"Your father says you're a smart ass."
"Still smart, though. Malfoy— since it seems we've resorted to our surnames— let me help you."
"No."
"You know I'm not going to give up on this."
"I know."
"You can't win in this battle of stubbornness against me, member of the order Fraternitas Draconum, third class."
Draco sighed, "That's one of the innumerable reasons why I can't tell you. Anyone more stubborn than me has got serious issues."
"Granger might be a sadist, but you're definitely entering masochist territory."
Draco ignored this comment. "I'm not going to tell you. You'll get us both killed… although, I'm probably headed that way regardless."
"Not on Nott's watch. Hm— that has a nice ring to it, no?"
"Good-bye, Nott. I'll see you in—" Draco tiredly eyed the magical clock on his wall, "—six hours."
Theo rose, returned the book to Malfoy's side, then headed for the door.
"Six hours? Can you really survive that long without me?"
"Stupefy!" Draco exclaimed, his wand aimed at Theo. With Theo's help, his mother had at last managed to reinstate all of the Manor's protective wards, including the ward that allowed Draco to perform underage magic without Ministry detection.
But Theo knew his opponent well, and had already stepped over the threshold, using the bedroom door as a shield against Draco's spell.
"We meet at dawn!" Draco heard Theo shout as he retreated down the hall.
Draco rolled his eyes, leaning into the pillows propped against his headboard.
He recognized the seed of change inside him continued to grow unfettered, its vine-like tendrils entwining, surrounding, collapsing the once hardened, predictable and undeniably comfortable darkness of the hate he'd known so well.
He was beginning to see that with exponential change came less clarity, a decreased grasp on what was truth, and what wasn't; to see that choice, at best, was gray.
Draco shifted his position in bed, and noticed Theo had left the book he'd been reading open, a sentence underlined.
"'The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.'"
In the margins, Draco found Theo had written: 'You still have shit to lose, you prat.'
Draco smirked, shaking his head, and tossed the book into his school trunk, which was propped open at the foot of his bed.
He knew hate, and pain… and he'd certainly become well-acquainted with fear, but through it all, something else had begun to take hold.
Draco decided that he was done deluding himself— only to hold onto some inflated sense of his past. His father had relied on blood purity, on the glory promised to him by others, but Draco was resolved to avoid this mistake; he was determined to rely only on his own knowledge and skill. He was done belittling his own intelligence, and he was done with the fear of displeasing his father, who was no more than a shell of a man now. Draco Malfoy was no fool, and he was not about to let himself be made one.
He was determined to make the right choices, whatever they may be… to save his mother and his home, and maybe he'd even manage to save his own future…
Or at least I'll die trying.
/
A/N: "I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain." James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time