Eight For A Wish
When Draco Malfoy was five years old, he wished for a toy broomstick. He'd seen other boys play with them since they were toddlers but, his father insisted that they were dangerous. Five, Draco was sure, was old enough for a broomstick, and he told Daddy so for weeks before his birthday, and when he puffed out the candles on his birthday cake he wished that one of the presents in the wrapped boxes in the drawing room was a toy broomstick at last. The wish came true. When Draco was opening the boxes later, the biggest one, labelled To Draco, love from Mummy and Daddy was a Euros Junior broomstick. Elated, Draco beamed a gappy smile at his parents, and spent the rest of the day whizzing around in the garden.
When Draco was six his wish didn't come true. Draco wished that his father wouldn't sell D'Argo, the family's chestnut mare. Mummy said that Draco would be big enough to learn to ride soon. But father had been considering selling the horse, and despite Draco's wish, a fortnight after his birthday D'Argo was boxed up and sent to the auction. "Never mind, you can borrow the Goyles' horse if you still want to learn," Mummy had told him.
"Don't cry, Draco," his father had said, "It's done now". Although he looked just as unhappy as Draco felt.
On Draco's ninth birthday he couldn't decide between wishing for a telescope or a knight costume.
When Draco turned eleven he wished for a fun first year at Hogwarts. He already knew Gregory Goyle and wanted to make new friends and have adventures. Draco's goal was to get onto the Quidditch team. He hoped to be top of the class and the brightest boy in Slytherin, but not a teacher's pet or a swot. He wished that he could be enough like Dad to make him proud, but different and unique and his own man. Most of all, Draco hoped that it would all be alright.
On the morning of his twelfth birthday Draco heard that Potter, Weasley and their girlfriend had been caught out of bed and up to something. Draco's wish was that they'd all get expelled.
On Draco's thirteenth birthday he was too old for wishes.
If he had made a wish on his sixteenth birthday, Draco would have wished for Pansy Parkinson to stop mooning over Theodore and start noticing him instead.
That was only a year ago, Draco marvels, staring up at the canopy of his dormitory four-poster. What an idiot he'd been, what a child. Fixated on girls and Quidditch and bolstering his reputation in the Inquisitorial Squad. None of that matters anymore, and it was stupid that it ever had. School doesn't even matter now; he's scraping through with Acceptable-grade essays and 60% on tests. Professor Vector had asked Draco to stay behind after Arithmancy a couple of weeks ago and inquired if everything was alright. Draco had half-expected this- Vector can't keep her nose out of anybody's business, even students. It's pathetic- but he hadn't known what to say.
"Yes, Professor, I'm just busy with my other subjects," Draco managed to murmur.
"Professor McGonagall says she's had to give you three detentions this term alone," Vector pointed out. Why does she give a damn about that? Why does she even know? "That's not like you. I know things must be difficult at home at the-"
Draco's temper broke. He wanted to spit that Vector didn't have the first idea about what it was like at home. He wanted to snarl at her to shut up about his father. The growl almost blurted out before Draco could stop it, but he caught himself in time. Stop. Think. Smile, be polite, Draco coaxed himself, and tried not to think about how polite smiles used to be automatic. He never used to need to remind himself.
"I'll work harder, Professor," he promised, "I've had other stuff on my mind but it's fine now. I'll do better from now on. Sorry, I've got to get to Potions," he said, and he'd fled from the room. It was all lies, of course- Draco hadn't had Potions; he'd rushed off to the Room of Requirement to examine the cabinet again. He hasn't worked harder or started doing better in Astronomy, and he can tell that Vector is still concerned. And most of all, everything wasn't and isn't fine. Draco's running out of patience, time and chances. Lying awake tonight, as he's so often found himself doing this year, Draco can admit to himself that necklace and the poison had been poor attempts to achieve his task. He was banking on a luck which hadn't appeared. Fool.
Draco rolls onto his side, looking over to where Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise and Theo are sleeping. In the morning they'll wake him up by jumping on his bed and whooping "Happy birthday!" while wrestling him and ruffling his hair. The five of them have done for each other on every birthday since second year, the childishness of it becoming enjoyably ironic as they get older. In the morning Draco will force himself to smile and join in with the roughhousing. It can't make anything worse.
When Draco can't sleep, his thoughts often wander to his Uncle Regulus, long dead, who joined the Death Eaters as a teenager and was killed for defecting. Father always used to speak scornfully of Uncle Regulus; he called him a traitor and a coward (although never in front of Mother, who had been close to him). Regulus lasted a few days before being killed for desertion, which Draco now realises was a lucky escape. Regulus didn't face a prison sentence, he avoided humiliation and his family stayed safe. The Dark Lord will not extend such luxuries to the Malfoys. The cabinet has been Draco's backup plan in case his other ploys failed, and now it looks as if that will fail too. He can't fix it, he can't fix it. He's tried every spell and searched every cranny of the cupboard for a part that might have broken or been displaced. He's shifted it, stroked it and coaxed it and, in frustration, kicked and raged at the damn thing, pleading with it to work. After the rage come the tears- he cries so much these days, with only the ghost girl to comfort him. He's barely different from the six-year-old crying over his horse, Draco thinks angrily. That's the point though, isn't it- he's a kid. Draco's spent so much of his school life acting like a grown-up and trying to be like his father, but now, with minutes to go before he turns seventeen, Draco feels more young and helpless than ever. He feels no thrill about coming of age, no pride. All there is is his task. If he dies in the process that'll pin the target on Mother and Father, and Draco can't kill himself for the same reason. He can't back out and he barely knows how to go forwards. But he must. He's got to. This year, as Draco listens to the dormitory clock tick round to midnight, he closes his eyes and wishes that it could all be over.