The Chronicles of Draco Malfoy

Chapter Four

Give your characters a part of yourself, without them being identical to yourself.

Well, since I am writing an autobiography, then I can just ignore this tidbit, right?

…

Eh, what do you know? You're just a stupid muse.

…

Ahem! Anyway.

All right. Quill and paper: check. Ink: check. Butterbeer: check. Some unidentified melted sweets from somewhere beneath my closet: check. A highly-motivated and definitely-in-the-mood-to-put-his-ideas-on-paper writer: check.

I crack my knuckles in a way reminiscent of Goyle before attacking a cooked turkey and of Crabbe before attacking an ickle firstie. Ahhhh... good times. But these memories are diverting me from my task today, which is coming up with a framework for my autobiography.

Yes, an autobiography. A biography of a life that will be from the point of view of the person living it, which in this case, is me.

I have to admit, taking this nonfiction path isn't my first choice. I had my heart set on making my first book a fictional retelling of my story, with all the names changed and I, as the privileged author, would be dubbing Ron Weasley as Rolly Weairdalot and Pansy as Petunia Perkymuch. Harry Potter would forever be known as Henry Patheticgit and Hermione Granger would become Henrietta Gaghernow. It was all amusing, really. But then I realized the potential problems that might arise from this – like, say, changing my name as well since I cannot mix truth and fiction in one book – and though charming the name Drake Marcus is absolutely nothing compared to the powerful, awe-inspiring Draco Malfoy. Regrettably, I decide to just stick with reality and stick with their uglier-than-thou names, for the sake of using my more beautiful one.

So! Autobiography. I must have a model so that at least I have a guide. Alas, the last I've read, Memoirs of Marguerite Malfoy, is an absolutely insipid book written by one of my relatives, my father's aunt's second cousin's daughter's niece to be exact. It centers more on her and her husband's budding-then-blazing romance, and the only thing lacking in it to become one of those trashy romance novels is a picture of a half-naked man and a woman with heaving bosoms.

Oh, wait, it had one of those!

Anyway.

So, like I said, I need a model to copy… err, emulate. And with my bookshelves almost bare I—

"Mreow."

I pause.

Whatever.

The only books I have in my shelves are my writing books, and those centers more on writing fiction instead of—

"Mreeeoow."

I look up.

Anyway.

I think tomorrow, as it is nighttime already, I shall buy myself some weird wizard's autobiography. If Flourish and Blott's still on sale, I may—

"Mreeeeeeoooooooowww!"

"What the bloody hell is making that noise?" I thunder, pushing back my chair and standing up. Just when I can concentrate on writing my bestselling-book-to-be, I get interrupted by some freakin' thing! Of all the stupid, ill-willed, nasty luck!

Looking around me, I notice that everything is in its proper order. There's that beautifully round wooden table with burgundy chairs I bought, the elegant chandelier, the plush sofa with a hideously ugly orange cat lying on it, the—

Hang on.

Since when did I own something ugly?

The orange cat blinks at me, opens its mouth and says, "Mreow."

For once in my life, I am speechless and I don't know what to do. I mean, what exactly do you do to a cat that seems content lying on your sofa? Especially one as huge and ugly as this?

As though it read my mind, it stands, stretches, displays its claws and says again, "Mreeeoow," in a more sinister tone.

Honestly, I don't know what to do with it, except not to insult the damned thing. I'm not entirely sure I can touch the cat, as it can very well shred my arm to pieces if I tried. Or it might bite me and I'll bleed profusely and die. Or it can lunge at me and tear my eyes out.

Well, I wasn't exactly raised with animals around me, you see. When I was small and I see a pet I wanted my mother would pat me on the cheek and say sweetly, "Don't worry darling, we'll get you a muggle someday." And I didn't know what a muggle was then, so I'd just agree and wish she'd get me one sooner so I have something to play with.

My mother never did get me a muggle, or any pet at all for that matter, and though I can handle owls and the occasional eagles I'm not certain I can handle the four-legged types of animals.

Remember that… ahem, that third year incident involving that nasty Buckbeak? It nearly slashed my arm off; it did!

And this one is just staring at me with its beady little eyes, waiting for me to move so it can strike back.

My instinct is telling me, run Draco run!

My pride is screaming, stay Draco stay!

Merlin this is ridiculous! Why am I scared of this little monster? I fought bigger beasts that this! I am infinitely better than this flat-faced furry animal! I must—

Then, it jumps down on the floor and walks towards me.

I freeze.

The orange menace approaches my feet, and I feel sweat running down the length of my back. I close my eyes. Any minute now, it will tear into my knees and I'll fall on the ground, helpless, begging as it devours my flesh, as it drinks my blood and—

"Purr."

Um, something soft is brushing against my leg. Is that a good thing or…

"Purr."

I summon the courage to open one eye, and I see the cat… rubbing its side against my leg.

"Purr."

Oh. All right.

I blink. It sits and blinks back at me.

Longingly, I look at my writing table. Then I look at the cat. I know I must do something to get rid of the cat to get back to my writing, so I did.

Taking a deep breath, I pick it up, open the door, and throw the cat into the hall. Let it go back to where it came from. It lands on its feet and before it can look and attack me I slam the door.

Where was I? Oh, right. Tomorrow I will go to Diagon Alley, pick up a few things, samples of autobiographies and such. Probably I can bribe Pansy into coming along so I can have her buy me food and have her carry my bags for me.

But! My future plans must not stop me from producing something today. Don't autobiographies usually start with the author's earliest reco—

"Mreow."

No, no, no, NO.

I turn around, and the ugly cat is back. Lying on the sofa. Beady eyes looking at me. Claws tearing into my plush furniture.

I toss it out with unnecessary vehemence.

Picking my quill, I put my thoughts into paper. Chapter one will be about my birth and childhood. I think I

"Mreow."

After tossing it out for the third time, I lock my door, lock my windows, lock anything that's open, and sit down to write.

From what I recall Mother saying, I was delivered by some mediwitch… Glenda Drufus or something like

"Mreow."

!(?)(&!#&

I am this close to stabbing my eye with a quill.

Taking out my wand, I point it at the cat. It blinks indifferently. I say in my sternest voice, "You must be some former enemy of mine, aren't you? That's your animagus form, isn't it? What, you're hoping you can catch me off-guard so you can kill me? Well, I'm onto you fiend! Prepare to suffer my wrath! Finite Incantatem!"

…

All right, so it's not some mortal enemy of mine or whatever, just a damn nuisance of a cat intentionally driving me out of my freakin' mind and doing a hell good of a job at it. I pick it up, ignore its purring head, open my door, and march out.

Someone must own this thing. Someone must pay.

I pound on Potter's door. "Potter! Come out! Come out! Cooomee ouuuttt!"

Yes, I am at the last fiber of my patience. How the bloody hell can you tell?

The door opens, and surprisingly Pansy is behind it. She smiles. "Draco! Good, good, you're here. Ron and I were just about to—what is that you're holding?" She instinctively steps back and shields her face with her hands.

"What do you think?" I snarl at her. I go inside with the cat dangling from my hands, still purring. "Where's Potter?"

"In his room. Ron's there, too. They're looking at something of Potter's that, according to him, would not interest me." She huffs. "Damn straight! Absolutely nothing of Potter's would interest me and – no! No! Don't put it down, it might bite me! It's…" But despite her words, Pansy draws closer to the cat. "It's so… orange. And huge. And ugly—"

"Mreooww!"

"Ahh!" She shrieks, jumping in time to avoid the razor-sharp claws.

"Don't call it that, it gets offended," I say. I mouth at her, "It can read minds."

Pansy mouths back at me, "And you're insane."

A door opens, and Weasley comes out. "What? What was that? What happened? Did you just scream?"

Potter follows, and he frowns at the cat I'm holding. "Hey, isn't that—"

Then something very much like heavy footsteps reaches my ears. It comes from outside. Like a whirlwind Granger runs inside the room, flushed, out of breath. "Harry! Harry, have you seen—Crookshanks!" She grabs the cat out of my hands and cradles it to her, kissing its head. Eww. "Oh, here you are, I thought I lost you again. Honestly! Didn't I tell you to—"

"Mreow." And despite it being showered with bloody kisses and hugs, the damn cat is still looking at me.

"You own that little monster?" I ask, glaring at her and her bloody cat.

She glares back. "What have you done to my cat, you bastard?"

Indignation burns at me. "What have I done? What have I done?" I point at it and say, "That bloody cat ruined my night! I was about to, well… no, wait a minute, why the bloody hell should I explain to you? I don't have to explain anything to you!"

Granger screws her face into this expression of extreme distaste and says, "Oh, if I find out that you've harmed Crookshanks in any way I'm going to—"

"I did not do anything to it you stupid—and what bloody kind of name is Crookshanks!"

"None of your business!"

"Damn straight it's not!"

"Bastard!"

"Idiot!"

"Ferret!"

"Stupid girl!"

And out Granger goes, taking her stupid cat with her.

And in I stay, taking deep breaths, trying to rein in my anger and desire to murder.

"Err. Right," Potter says after a few minutes. "Anyone care for some dinner?"

--

It's been a long, harsh, tiring day, and all I want to do now is to sleep.

The bed is beckoning. My eyes are drifting shut. My writing tools are kept and ready for tomorrow's use, so in the meantime I will just—

"Mreow."

Oh dear God NO.

Turning away from my bedroom, I walk into the living room and find the cat lying contentedly on the sofa. For the nth time that night.

"What have I ever done to you to punish me like this?" I say to it, feeling foolish that I'm speaking to an animal.

The cat blinks at me, then proceeds to lick itself.

"If Granger finds you here, I can't promise which one of us will die first," I say.

The cat just purrs.

Tentatively, I reach out and touch the cat. It has a soft fur, like velvet. The cat purrs again, then prods my fingers with its head. I touch its cold nose, then move my hand up until I'm stroking its entire length.

It's a curious feeling, watching and just hearing the animal breathe. Its eyes drift shut, and soon it is sleeping rather soundly.

I smile.

This cat is one weird animal, just like its owner.

Who is, predictably, knocking on my door, shattering the settled peace and the cat's sleep.

I open my door, and am greeted by the sight of Granger in her night robe. "What?"

"My cat, if you please."

"I didn't steal it."

"But Crookshanks is there, right?"

I smirk. "No."

She glares at me. "Liar. I can see my cat on your sofa."

"Like I said, I didn't steal your cat."

"So why is it there?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I don't even know how it gets inside."

She crosses her arms. "It must be because my cat's smart and you're not."

"Well, the reason your cat's here is because it likes me and not you."

"That's not true; I've had Crookshanks for years already!"

"Probably why it's looking for a new owner."

Huffing, she pushes me away and walks to the sofa. "Crookshanks, I told you not to—" She pauses, then looks around. "Crookshanks? Crookshanks!"

"What? Cat's not there?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No, no, it must've ran off when we were… close the door would you!"

"I live to obey your wishes, mistress," I tell her dryly. I close the door.

Granger sinks on the floor on all fours and looks around. "You are such an arrogant, annoying, haughty little—Crooshanks! Wait!"

We both see the cat dash into my bedroom. We both run inside, just in time to see a huge speck of orange squeeze itself out of a barely-open window.

"So that's how that cat gets here," she mutters, walking to the offending window and closing it. Granger whirls at me. "Next time, do us a favor and keep this bolted shut. I don't want to have my cat anywhere near here or you, do you understand?"

"So you're moving out?"

Her eyes widen. "What? I didn't—"

"You said you don't want your cat anywhere near here or me, and since you live near me…" I leave the words unsaid.

For a few seconds, she is speechless. Color blooms on her cheeks, nails dig into her palms and she utters the supremely intelligible "Ughhhh!" before almost running out of my apartment.

Heh.

That was fun.

Must do it again.

Casually, I open the window, and let Crookshanks do its thing.

Predictably, when I wake up the cat is there, lying contentedly on my sofa.

Mwahahaha.

I can't wait for Granger to see this one.

--

Author's Notes: I admit, this chapter is a little late… okay, a LOT late. But! Hopefully the next chapter will be coming in faster, as school is over! Yay summer vacation!