Chapter Three: Boggarts and Blaise
Draco was back at work by Monday, having been re-stupefied(this time of his own will, which was a nice change) and carried back to his house by Weasley, he assumed. He still winced when he thought of Ron Weasley with his unconscious body slung over his shoulder, Apparating to his apartment and having to lie him down in his own bed.
Not that Draco had gotten much sleep. His worries about the many murders were keeping him up at night, destroying his appetite, making him grim and paranoid. He'd sent his mother an owl the moment he'd woken up(he secretly managed to keep a small barn owl in his flat, though he had to let it live outside most of the time), unable to stay calm but forcing himself to be casual, and she'd immediately replied with a thirteen page letter about how much they missed him and wanted him to come home. It had made him so guilty that he'd almost thrown up. He'd even written Potter, who he knew was living at the Weasley's house with Ginny for the time being, asking how everything was going. It had made him feel stupid, seeing his panicked, quick hand writiting scratched across the parchment displaying his fear and worry, but he'd felt a surge of something like joy when he'd received Harry's annoyed, curt response.
The same as yesterday, when you last talked to me, Malfoy.
We're all still alive.
Harry Potter
He'd forgotten how fun pissing off Harry Potter could be.
His strain was starting to show. In fact, that morning, when a young witch had accidently stepped on his foot, he'd shouted at her until tears ran down her cheeks.
Part of the reason that this was so frightening was because he no longer had a family name to protect him from things like this, and the absence of that one form of protection that had guarded him for so many years was grating on his nerves.
For the first time in his life, he was just another wizard, not dangerous, infamous Luscious Malfoy's son.
But that was what he wanted, wasn't it? Freedom from his parents, which had controlled him throughout his childhood. Freedom from the darkness of the reputation his bloodline had earned? Didn't he want to be independent, and not have people judge him for his past or his family's past? For a long time, the answer had been Yes. Ever since the war had ended, he'd been slowly drifting away from his parents, slowly breaking the bond between them. He hadn't consciously been doing it, but soon he was refusing to go to the classy parties of Ex-Death Eaters that he once would have gone to and danced at, putting on airs and acting like the pompous prick that was required of him. Soon he was openly talking to people that had been so far out of his social circle before that he hadn't spared a glance in their direction.
Soon he was in love with another man's fiancee, a blood-traitor who he'd relentlessly teased for years.
He knew that these things hurt his parents, who were too old now to really change their ways. They concealed their contempt for mudbloods and muggles a bit better, and they could hide their obsession with the Dark Arts to a socially acceptable point, but they would never be the kind to walk an old witch across the street or donate to charity. Hell, they'd never be the sort to converse politely with random people in a coffee shop who could be below their class. They had a strict mold that could never be shifted or remodeled, and for seven years, Draco Malfoy had been on the fast track to being the same way.
But when Harry Potter and his friends had pulled him out of that fire in the Room of Requirement, something in him had broken. Gone was the prideful, selfish Draco Malfoy who had fought against Harry Potter and the Dream Team, and the person left in his wake was conflicted and afraid, forced to battle between his Slytherin descent, and his fear of becoming his past.
But now he wondered if he would have been safer, turning into the Malfoy man that he would have been, taking his father's place at the Ministry, marrying a nice, pureblood girl, and inheriting a mountain of Galleons. It sounded like a gloriously boring life to lead, but much more enticing than the lonely, frightful, bleak one he was forced to endure now.
It gave him a headache to think about it all. How could so much have gone wrong in so little time?
It was a deary day at Borgin and Burkes, and the sky was thick with swirling gray clouds that occasionally spat out flurries of freezing snow. Business was slow, and he'd been standing behind the counter for three hours with nothing to do. He imagined what it would be like when he finally signed the contract that would hand him his business. He would have this place packed in no time...somehow.
The parchment with the suspects rattled in the pocket of his black slacks, and he pulled it out, examining the faces idly. He'd been doing this every twenty minutes for the past hour. He looked down the list, his eyes passing slowly over the different faces. Most of them were cantankerous-looking old men, former Death-Eaters who'd escaped Azkaban by fighting the Ministry, but there were also a variety of young magicfolk, a few young men who were not from Slytherin, but from Ravenclaw, Griffindor, and Hufflepuff. There were also some witches of varying ages, some old and some young, including a young girl of about six with long, straight black hair and cold blue eyes that seemed to dare him to make one move against her. She was pretty, but it was marred by the scowl on her face.
He glanced down to read her name, and was surprised to only find two letters.
A. J.
Nothing else. No last name, no nothing. She looked strangely familiar...her round face and strong jaw brought threads of nostalgia to his mind. Where had he seen this girl before? And why was such a young child on a list of suspects for murder?
As he stewed, he heard the squeal of old door hinges and the thud of heavy footsteps. Hastily, he shoved the parchment back into his pocket.
"Malloy!" A voice boomed. Draco sighed as his boss, Mr. Borgin, stomped into the dim room. He was a short, round man, with slick black hair and cold brown eyes, and he had the memory and attention span of a shrew. Draco wondered if he should say "It's Malfoy." For the ninetieth time, but decided against it. He was beyond the point of caring.
"We need you in the back," Borgin said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, "Some old witch has traded in an ancient china case and it's got a boggart in it." He spat. His face was pale and sweat dripped down his forehead.
Malfoy sighed. "What do we need an old china case for?" He asked, leaving the counter, his thoughts drifting protectively to Harry's book, which was thunking loudly in his pocket. "This is a fancy little thing, I haven't seen one in thirty years. You'll be the one setting up, so you'll be testing it. Now get in the back!"
"You can't get rid of a boggart?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. He knew he could be as disrespectful to Mr. Borgin as he liked, for the little man was terrified of him. Draco wanted to distance himself from the Malfoy reputation, but using it to his advantage was just too much fun to resist.
Mr. Borgin's chest swelled in indignation, but he said nothing, only gesturing towards the hallway which led to the back room, where all of the newest pieces were kept until they could be brought into the front.
Draco walked down the dark, musty hallway, the small lights flickering as his footsteps clumped over the ancient wood floor.
The back room was large, but it felt cramped and crowded. Ancient tapestries lined the walls, depicting bloody battle scenes that shimmered and moved as though they were really happening on the fabric. These were, of course, the ancient(and now banned) curses of old witches and wizards from medieval times, spells that hadn't been used in centuries, and the tapestries were spun with the finest threads imaginable. Draco knew that if you cut or damaged the tapestries in any way, you would be cursed for all eternity, and he avoided touching them at all.
The room was full of dusty objects, seemingly innocent wardrobes that would actually murder you if opened(these were illegal, yet Borgin loved them), gigantic safes designed by rich wizards who were very overprotective of their fortunes(these also murdered you, but in a variety of different ways) shrunken body parts of extinct magical creatures, and other strange and horrifying things.
He followed the sounds of thumping, indicating the boggart's position, until he reached a very peculiar china case.
It was six feet tall, and made of dark oak wood with intricately carved daisies for handles. The glass doors, which were strangely circular, were so thick with grime that you couldn't see inside, which explained the reason a boggart could survive inside.
The legs were carved into six-inch talons at the bottoms, and they spread out across the dirty floor in a wide fan shape.
Draco reached forward, bracing himself for his worst fear, and yanked open the doors. There was a puff of thick dust that exploded into the air, blinding him, and he stepped back in surprise.
He heard a scream, a scream he recognized, and then a few muffled voices crying out in pain.
The dust cleared, and he saw something that almost made his heart stop beating.
A dark, faceless form stood with both feet planted the backs of two different people. His father, who was unconscious and bleeding heavily, and his mother, who was screaming through the gag in her mouth, screaming for him to run.
The form had it's arm around Ginny's waist, clutching her to it, and a knife was pressed against her throat, slowly cutting into her pale, freckled skin. A current of blood flowed down her neck, dripping onto the floor.
"Riddickulus!" He screamed, but his mind was blank of any way to make the scene before him less terrifying. The knife cut deeper, and Ginny screamed in tormented agony, tears of fear and pain oozing from her eyes.
His mother struggled harder, but the killer merely kicked her, and she groaned, thumping against the floor.
He repeated the spell, but it did no good. His arm fell limply to his side, his hand releasing his wand, which clattered to the floor. He had fallen to his knees without realizing it. The form began to change. Crabbe's dead body. A flash of green light. Hermione screaming and thrashing. Voldemort's red eyes boring into his soul.
He covered his face with his hands and sobbed, sobbed like a tiny child. The boggart, sensing that the threat had passed, leapt back into the cabinet with a crash. It wobbled slightly, and then silence fell.
Draco sat there, his shoulders shaking, the cold air numbing his body.
An hour later, Borgin opened the door to find the young man with his head leaning against a dresser that was making odd crooning noises, his eyes as bleak and cold as the winter wind. For the first time in his life, Borgin felt a twinge of sympathy.
"We'll call someone. Go home." He said gruffly.
Draco rose, nodded his thanks, and swept out the door.
His worst fear for many years had been disappointing his family. Shaming his mother and father, who had been like gods in his eyes since he was a young boy. Both his mother and his father excelled at the art of being polite and perfectly mannered while simultaneously flaunting their superiority, which gave them an air of wealth and importance that seemed to overpower everyone else and make them look dull and drab in comparison.
They both had delicate aristocratic features that showed their fine, pure bloodlines, and well-made, expensive robes, not to mention piles of wealth and a giant manor.
They had been the very definition of what good pureblood wizardfolk should be, and, as a child, Draco had known from he had to be just as perfect as they were. He was the only son, after all, and it was his duty to be everything a pureblood wizard needed to be. He had to act a certain way and live a certain life, and he couldn't mess anything up, couldn't tarnish his image in any way.
And he'd been terrified of slipping up. That had been his one fear for as long as he could remember. It was the one he had braced himself for.
But he was a changed man, different now than he'd been, independent of his parents, he should have known that his fear would change.
As he walked down the snow-speckled street of Diagon Alley, the early afternoon sun(which had managed to fight through the now thinning gray clouds) warm on his icy cheeks, he saw everything again before his very eyes. Ginny screaming, his mother and father helpless on the floor...Voldemort's eyes, his cruel sneer...
His heart thudded wildly in his chest, and he felt like he needed to see his family, and Ginny, alive and well before he could ever be truly sure that what he had just witnessed was just a boggart. That's cowardly, he hissed at himself, stupid. They're fine and you know it.
He'd let a boggart get the best of him. They'd covered boggarts in their third year. He shouldn't have let it get that strong, now anyone who came to deal with it would have a time getting it under control.
He sighed, deciding that he should just go home and rest, hating the idea of arriving at an empty house and just sitting there in the cold.
"Draco Malfoy." A voice behind him said. It was smooth and sly...untrustworthy. He knew who it was right away.
He turned around and saw Blaise Zabini, five inches taller than the last time he'd seen him, draped in an expensive looking black cloak. "Blaise." He said stiffly. They'd never been very close, though Blaise had been by his side through almost all of his sixth year.
"Interesting to see you here." Blaise said, his voice a purr in his throat. He wanted something. Draco could smell it on him.
"Not really. I work at Borgin and Burke's now, actually." He said warily, raising his brows. "Really?" Said Blaise, sounding completely bored.
"Yes. Are you still looking to become that treasure hunter?" He asked jokingly, remembering how many times Blaise had talked about hidden treasures in Egyptian tombs.
Blaise's face twitched, and he grinned, displaying perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. "I've actually found a much better occupation." He said. Draco's eyebrows touched his hairline. "Ah." He muttered.
"Blaise!" A voice called. Blaise turned, flashing a brilliant smile towards a young witch and a wizard at least twenty yeas older than Draco, both of which seemed to have come from nowhere. "Jackie, Reynolds." He said warmly as the pair reached him.
Jackie had creamy skin and wavy copper hair, and her face, which was round and cheerful, was pink with cold. She had a wild sparkle in her eyes that intrigued Draco, and she let her eyes linger on his before turning to Blaise and saying "Who's this?" In a tinkling little voice.
Reynolds, a tall, gaunt old man with thin gray hair and an extremely piggish nose, was glaring at Draco with piercing eyes.
"This is Draco Malfoy. We were friends in school." Blaise said airily.
"Lucius Malfoy's son?" Jackie asked, smiling a charming smile. Draco nodded.
"Do you remember me? Jacqueline Williams? We danced at every Malfoy ball together!" She said.
Jacqueline...he did remember her. His first kiss, under the staircase at the manor during winter holiday of his...fourth year? That sounded right. He could remember thinking that Jackie was a silly little thing in her pink gown with her copper hair tied back like she was sixteen, but she'd been pretty at least. Her parents were pureblood, but they hung on the coattails of the more wealthy and famous like leeches.
"Yeah, I remember you. The staircase?" He said, giving her his most dashing smile for some reason or another.
It felt good, seeing a woman blush under his charm after so long.
"Maybe you two would like to catch up over a few firewhiskeys? Personally, I'd love to hear about Borgin and Burkes. We were going to the Leaky Cauldron tonight, if you were interested." Blaise said casually.
Draco thought a moment. Something about this seemed...odd. But, after the past two months of hating Potter and craving Ginny, of dreading the wedding and racking his brains on ways to stop it(complicated plans filled his thoughts every night before he went to sleep), and now with the added stress of possibly having everything in his life taken away from him, he desperately wanted to go out. Maybe this would take his mind off of...everything.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay. What time should I show up?" He asked.
Blaise's eyes flickered with something like triumph. "Eight. We're celebrating a...birthday, tonight." He grinned.
"See you then, Draco." Jackie smiled, winking as Blaise turned the group away and they began walking in the opposite direction.
Draco stared after them a moment before heading back to his flat, feeling, for the first time in months, just a little bit excited.