Author's Note: The second installment, and my longest and most favourite chapter to date. Hope you enjoy it too. :)
"If you can dream – and not make dreams your master
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim"
"Come and say hello to your godfather, Draco. He has come to see you especially, so I will not tolerate any silly behaviour." Draco stepped forwards, tripping slightly over his robes that were far too long for him.
"Hello godfather, it is very nice to meet you." Remembering what his father had instructed him to do, Draco stuck out his hand and grinned as his Godfather shook it.
"Well done Draco." Lucius interceded. "But I must ask that you call him Professor Snape, it is unseemly to call him godfather." Draco was somewhat put out, but his godfather smiled at him crookedly.
"Am I correct in thinking that it is your birthday today?" Draco nodded eagerly.
"Yes, and I have received lots of gifts! Would you like to see the puppy that father bought me?"
"Perhaps later, for I have a gift for you first." Snape waved his hand; a package zoomed out of thin air towards Draco, stopping right in front of him.
"Is that what I think it is?" Lucius asked ominously, as Draco tore the paper to reveal a shiny broomstick.
"That's amazing!" He cried excitedly, leaping onto it and waving as he flew into the air. "Thank you so much Professor Snape!"
"You are very welcome, Mr Malfoy."
As Draco circled the skies ahead, cheering and whooping occasionally to emphasise his enjoyment, he watched his father and godfather anxiously. They were talking to one another, clearly trying to hide their conversation but doing it unsuccessfully.
"I told you expressly that I did not wish for Draco to have a broom so soon. He is only five years old."
"Exactly." Snape responded, watching the blonde boy. "So he should be enjoying himself in the fresh air, instead of learning how to take tea correctly or how to boss the house elves around. Your son seems like an intelligent boy, Lucius, please don't spoil him by making him precious."
"Draco is my son, and I shall treat him how I choose. You will take the broomstick with you when you leave, Severus, and never ignore my wishes again."
That evening, as Draco's mother tucked him into bed, he told her all about the meeting with his godfather. She listened smilingly, as she stroked her son's blonde hair with fondness.
"What do you think of him? Do you like him?"
"Very much! He seems a little angry, scary too…but I like him. Did you see the broomstick he bought me?" Narcissa placed her hands onto her lap, let out a delicate sigh and smiled sadly at her son.
"I must speak with you about that, darling." Draco closed his eyes and leant back into the pillow. "Your godfather had to take the broom back with him."
"Why?" His eyes had snapped open, and he stared at his mother. "Why has he taken it back?"
"Your father doesn't want you to ride a broom yet, dearest; you have lots more to learn before you can do that."
"But…but I was good at it, mother. Why does father ruin everything? I hate him." Narcissa sighed and kissed his forehead, before walking over to the door.
"I know, darling. I know."
Ever since that day, Draco had mentally compared Snape to Lucius. His godfather was such a dark-looking man, with a permanent sneer on his face and a nasty demeanour. Draco's father looked like an angel; the blonde hair, the bright eyes and his ability to be the most charming man in the room. Yet Draco had never been able to truly like his father. If he had to choose between them, Draco would have always selected Snape.
Tuesday 10th March, 1998
Draco's head was swimming with thoughts about his father as he sat on the windowsill of the attic. From there he could see the chimneys of the nearby houses, and watch the muggles going about their business. He watched as a young boy learnt to ride his bicycle with his father, and felt the familiar pang of regret and jealousy. Sighing, he pressed his hand against the cold pane of glass and closed his eyes.
"Is everything alright?" Draco turned to see that Granger had stopped reading. She was sat on the floor, her head angled to him with a thick smudge of dust on her face. He couldn't help but smile.
"Yes, thank you."
"I don't mean to pry, but judging by your expression everything isn't alright." She closed her book and walked over to the window, instantly spotting the boy and his father. "Tell me about your father."
Draco moved to allow her to sit on the windowsill too, with her back against the opposite wall and her legs between his. He avoided her eye, choosing instead to continue staring at the view of London outside.
"You know a lot about my father already. He isn't very complex, but simply the man you have met several times: cruel and merciless."
"Tell me about him anyway – tell me about your grandparents, your childhood…"
"I have only met one of my grandparents: my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy. He died when I was ten years old, so I had the misfortune of ten years of weekly visits." He sighed and turned to look at Hermione. "He wasn't a pleasant man, in short, but my father most certainly saw him as the perfect role model – for both him and me."
"You visited your grandfather every week? I cannot imagine that."
"Yes. It would no doubt be preferable if I told you that I had a ghastly childhood; that I was uncomfortable and unhappy."
"Were you?"
"Not at all. I had everything I could have wanted. My home was large, we had plenty of money and I got almost everything I wanted when I asked for it. The only time it became…difficult was when my father was in Azkaban. That is when I began to realise that everything wouldn't always be so smooth."
Hermione smiled somewhat pityingly, and Draco shrugged his shoulders. "What about your childhood? I'm intrigued as to the sort of home a muggle born witch lived in." Hermione wrapped her arms around herself and sighed.
"My parents certainly weren't as wealthy as yours and, of course, they were muggles. They were both relatively normal, mundane even. My father likes to fish, and my mother bakes fantastic cakes; that is, when they are not both working at their dentistry practice."
"Fascinating." Draco said, smirking. "Can you fish or bake?"
"Not at all! I'm appalling at both." They laughed awkwardly.
"You would have been better asking about Snape." Draco said quietly. "He has been more of a father to me than Lucius has ever been."
"Oh? Of course, I knew he was your godfather, but I had no idea you were so close." Draco told her about his fifth birthday, and he cringed when she touched his arm. He loathed it when she did that, couldn't stand the physical contact and didn't understand how it could make it at all better. "And so he has been like that ever since? Someone who you could turn to, who would give you the things your father wouldn't?"
"Yes. Snape was the only one who understood that I didn't want to…that I couldn't…that my father's path wasn't for me." He ran a hand through his hair, trying hard to avoid the pitying looks she was giving him. "He tried to help me last year, but I turned him away. I was so afraid, yet so determined, and wanted to do it alone." He laughed bitterly. "In the end he did it for me, and we both had to run away because of it. Then, on top of that, I couldn't handle it and he brought me here."
"He brought you here?"
"Yes, and I'm glad I insisted on it." Draco shook his head. "You will never be able to appreciate all that he has done for me. Without him, I would be dead."
"You must miss him." Draco reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a scrap of folded parchment.
"I want to send this to him." He held it between two fingers, and waved it elegantly. "But they won't let me send letters. You, on the other hand…"
"You want me to send a letter to Snape?" She sighed. "They wouldn't like it." Draco leant forwards and smirked cheekily, and he was pleased to see he still 'had it' when Hermione blushed a little.
"Please? It isn't going to hurt anybody, is it? One tiny letter to Severus Snape. Think of it as a thank you, for saving your life." Draco felt a little bad about manipulating her like that, but it was his only choice. He needed to speak to Snape. Gingerly, she took the letter from him and slipped it into her pocket.
"I'll send it." She whispered. "But you mustn't tell a single soul. I'm doing this to show my gratitude, and not as any show of support for Snape. I still believe he betrayed us, and that isn't going to change."
Without thinking, Draco reached out and touched her arm. He looked into her face earnestly, and nodded.
"Thank you."
Wednesday 25th March, 1998
On a dark and damp afternoon when Draco was five years old, he realised his first ever aspiration. Whilst his father was at the ministry, and his mother asleep in the parlour, he stole away from his governess and managed to find his way into his father's library. He had never been permitted to enter there, and it had always been a fixation of his. As he finally stood amongst the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, it occurred to the little blonde-haired boy that he wanted to read every single one of them. He could smell the leather and the old fusty pages, and Draco had a strong desire to hold each of them and read the words written there. Eagerly he had run his hand along the shelves, feeling the beautiful binding beneath his fingers and feeling a shudder of delight as he did. There were books about love, death, violence, betrayal and desire; books about geography, history, philosophy; books with only maps, or pictures, or in foreign languages which he could not yet understand. His sole dream became to read them all. For a moment he did not think of his father's anger, or his mother's frantic worry when she realised he could not be found – he could only think of reading those books.
Taking the first book on the bottom shelf, he went and sat in his father's wing-backed chair and opened the book. Without realising it Draco fell asleep, all curled up in the forbidden security of his father's library. His governess had found him, scooped him into her arms and brought him to his mother for a suitable punishment. When Draco awoke, without his book and sat in front of an angry mother, his dream was readily forgotten. However, his mother had gently placed her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"Draco darling, what were you doing in father's library?" He had smiled at his mother, and with wide eyes told her of all the beautiful books.
"I want to read every single one of them, mother! I'm going to, I promise!" She smiled at him kindly.
"Draco, you are not allowed to enter your father's library, so you cannot read all of those books." Draco's eyes had brimmed with tears; he could not understand why his mother was doing this to him. He asked her, folding his arms tempestuously.
"Why not, mother? I want to." She let out a weary sigh.
"Sometimes Draco, what we want and what we get are two different things. You, especially as a Malfoy, shall have to learn to simply accept it."
That was the first time one of his dreams had been shattered, but it was certainly not the last. As Draco prepared to go to Hogwarts, his head was full of dreams of being friends with the great Harry Potter. His parents had told him all about it; the story of Harry killing the greatest wizard of all time, and of how Potter had no idea of his true, noble heritage. Draco was determined to teach Potter all about it – they would play Quidditch together, share the packages of sweets his mother sent him at the weekends. Potter and Malfoy would become the greatest pair of wizards Hogwarts had ever seen, bringing pride and joy to the Slytherin house and showing the world how they were the best of friends. However, Draco's first introduction to Potter had not gone at all swimmingly. He had already become pals with the redheaded Weasley vermin, and had all but snubbed his attempts to be friends. Instead, Draco was stuck with Crabbe and Goyle who could barely climb onto a broomstick let alone play Quidditch. He had been bitter about it for months, complaining to his mother in his weekly letters, until she had sent him a letter with a particularly poignant post script. Draco had read "Remember what I told you Draco, what you want and what you get are two different things". He had soon abandoned any hope of being Potter's friend and, instead, turned all of his energy towards getting his revenge – mercilessly teasing 'Scar-Head' and his ridiculous friends.
Perhaps the most painful, and disastrous, end to one of Draco's dreams was his joining the Death Eaters. For years his father had described it as being the best thing that could happen to him, the only sure way to get power and everything he wanted in one move. Draco had been promised power, influence and money, and he had begun to almost realise that dream. The taste of victory and success was in his mouth, and Draco was quite ready to savour every morsel. Then he was given the assignment to kill Dumbledore. As he worked, half-heartedly, to try and find a way to fulfil his assignment, Draco had begun to realise that there was no glory in murder. Cold-blooded killing would not bring him power, nor would it bring him money or influence, and it would certainly not bring him popularity. As he sat on the floor of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, the most recent letters from his mother and father crumpled in his hand, he sobbed loudly for his most destructive dream. His own dreams and ambitions had led him towards death – it was either to be his, Dumbledore's or Snape's, but someone was certain to die.
Even two years later, this broken dream hit Draco like a thousand knives. It was early in the morning, about 1 O'clock, and he sat awake in his bedroom; the covers pulled up to his chin. The memories of his misguided hopes and aspirations stung, as he battled to ignore new ones that were blossoming in his head and his heart. He had tried fervently to block out these new desires that he could feel growing inside him, almost like an unwanted tumour or disease. Yet every day his resolve was growing weaker, and the roots of his new dreams had a strong hold on him. As he sat in the dark, shivering slightly, he finally realised that he did not have the energy to fight his aspirations any longer. He wanted her. He desired her. She was like those forbidden books in his father's library, the excitement of a possible friendship, the strong desire for power and influence and freedom. She had come to represent everything he could never have, all wrapped up neatly in a brown-eyed, bushy-haired package. Letting out a frustrated sigh, he rested his head on his knees and closed his eyes. What had started as a half-hearted friendship, had developed into a mild attraction and now an indisputable desire. He shivered again, but he was not certain whether it was the cold or the realisation of what he wanted.
Sighing, he climbed out of bed and wrapped his dressing robe around him. He would make himself a cup of tea, and get a slice of that carrot cake that Mrs Weasley had left on the counter. He liked the house when it was quiet, when even his bare feet made a sound as they slapped against the floor. As he descended the stairs, he heard a noise that suddenly made him stop. From within the kitchen, he could hear muttered voices that sounded both distressed and angry. He edged a little closer, making sure not to make any kind of noise. It was Granger, and Draco believed that she was talking to Professor McGonagall.
"You must be missing them terribly." McGonagall said, her voice unusually soft. Draco almost grinned as he heard Granger snort in disagreement.
"I would be missing them a lot more if they weren't being so…controlling."
"Controlling? Whatever do you mean? Have you received a letter from them?"
"Oh yes! Several, and each one more domineering than the last! I am at my wits end with them, Professor McGonagall. I am not allowed to do anything!"
"And by 'anything', do you mean spending time with Mr Malfoy?" The disgust was evident in the old professor's voice.
"Yes, yes I do mean spending time with Malfoy. I cannot see why everyone has such a problem with me being near him!" Draco heard McGonagall sigh wearily.
"It is not a problem with you being near him, Hermione, but simply a lack of understand as to why you would want to. He is not a pleasant boy." Granger laughed sourly.
"And Harry is? Those two are more alike than people believe; both can be stubborn, arrogant, selfish and pig-headed. Yet they both have saving graces, Professor McGonagall. I want to be Malfoy's friend."
"But why?"
"I don't know why, Professor McGonagall! Why does anyone want to be friends with somebody? It seems like a perfectly…natural thing for us to be."
"It is very strange indeed, Miss Granger, and I am sure that Professor Dumbledore would not have wanted it." Granger laughed. "I will simply have to forbid you from being his friend; it is ridiculous. He is untrustworthy." Granger's laughter only increased more, and Draco found it eerily beautiful as it echoed up the stairs.
"I am afraid I shall have to disobey you then, Professor. I will be Draco's friend, even if the Ministry of Magic make a law declaring it to be illegal!" Her voice, although it sounded polite, contained thinly-veiled anger and defiance. "You have become like everyone else, Professor. Like Dumbledore and Harry, this war is no longer about what is right or what is wrong – it has become about personal grudges and disputes. You are all petty and vindictive, cloaking it beneath the efforts for the war." McGonagall let out a startled cry of disbelief.
"How dare you speak to me like that? You are quite run mad, Miss Granger!"
"I am perfectly sane, Professor. Sane enough to know that this conversation has been thoroughly unpleasant and a waste of my time. I'm going to bed now, because this conversation has exhausted me. Good night."
Draco ran back to his room as fast as his legs could carry him. He leant his back against the shut door, and slid down it so he was sat on the floor. Granger speaking out against McGonagall had been amazing, and something that he himself had wanted to do for many years. He couldn't help the smile that slid across his face; it was not a smirk, or a grimace, but a simple honest smile. Still smiling he closed his eyes and, like his five year old self, fell asleep with the heady feeling that his dream could possibly, for once, be attainable.
