FOX AND HOUND
Rated: M for strong language and sexual situations.
Chapter Summary: "It's not that great of a feeling, you know - being part of history."
Disclaimer: Oh, please. I wish.
Authors Note: This story was inspired first by the HPB movie; Malfoy really stood out to me this time and I felt sympathy and interest for his character. It is also inspired by Lady Altair's one shot "Kicking Down Castles" (I highly recommend you read it… I found it brilliant).
Oh, and this is my very first Draco fic, and first M-rated fic, and I haven't written in a LONG time. So, please, forgive the tiny mistakes. I'm a bit rusty.
CHAPTER ONE: LAUGHING AND DRINKING AND DANCING
The bar grew darker and darker as evening turned to night. The moon had risen in the sky completely now, that he could see through the tiny windows just below the ceiling. It was full and round tonight, providing extra light within the bar other than the few lamps with dark red shades over them. He had only been there for a few minutes but was already considering leaving. More people had started to enter, order drinks, and begun dancing to the pop music being played from across the room. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves, laughing and drinking and dancing as though nothing at all was wrong in their world.
Which was alright, he supposed, since there really wasn't anything wrong in their world. They were at liberty to laugh and drink and dance as much as they very well pleased because they were safe, and they didn't need to concern themselves with anything like wars or reconstruction.
In his world, however, it was quite the opposite. Although the war had ended, reconstruction had only just begun and for someone like him - a former member of the Dark side (and he certainly did consider himself a former member, considering his slightly delayed repentance to the good side) - life was a living Hell. He could hardly walk into any public place in the wizarding community without being shot a dirty look. People looked down upon him, found him disgusting because they had no idea of how he had changed his allegiants last minute. Not that they would have cared anyway, though.
He had grown tired of the looks, of the snobbery from both of his parents who still refused to admit they had been wrong in siding with the Dark Lord. After only two weeks of both, he made the decision to get out and leave. He simply couldn't take it anymore.
He had packed his bags in the night and left a short message to his mother and father, telling them where he was going and not to try and find him. He then Apparated into an ally way in the south of France, a place that had always been close to his heart ever since his childhood visits there in the summers before Hogwarts.
And before the Dark Lord.
It had been the only time in which he had interacted with Muggles. Granted, it was always very brief interactions - getting into a cab and being dropped off on the border of a wizarding resort - and he was never permitted to talk to them.
When he returned, however, years later he realized that he did not have the courage to go and stay around more wizards and witches - they were, in fact, the very people he was trying to escape. Instead, he clumsily used the Muggle money he had quickly exchanged his many galleons for at Gringotts the previous day to rent a drafty, dark, but not all together gloomy apartment near the beach.
For the first two weeks he had hardly left the building. He managed to get by on as little food as possible, choosing to sit and read most of the day by his window that looked out over the sea.
Eventually, though, he became restless and his curiosity got the better of him.
So he went out.
He didn't get far, however, when he spotted a bar just down the street and had decided to enter it.
It was there he saw them laughing, and drinking, and dancing for the first time.
The Muggles.
At first, he had been blown away by it all. He would sit for hours on end, lightly drinking his Muggle beer or wine, watching as they moved about happily and chatted carefree. They had absolutely no idea what had happened - what sacrifices had been made to protect them and the rest of the world from complete annihilation and darkness. These people had no idea about Hogwarts, or Dumbledore, or Harry Potter, or even him, Draco Malfoy.
The thought that kept haunting him, however, was that these people - these Muggles - had never even heard of Tom Riddle.
Of Lord Voldemort.
Perhaps that was why all of their faces looked so young, and yet his seemed distant. Perhaps that was why they were all so bright and their lips lifted into smiles so easily while he was pale, dim, and he had not known a smile in ages.
He had always been taught that Muggles were dumb, easily amused, and altogether boring.
But these people in France - students, mostly - were nothing at all like he had heard. He had overheard a great majority of them talking amongst themselves or others, and they were brilliant. He couldn't understand half of what they discussed - they talked about things such as Come-Puters and Stalks and Bonds - but he could tell that they were intellectual. The reason most wizards and witches thought they were dull or slow was due to their ignorance of all things magical, not truly because they were stupid.
And they were not boring at all! They laughed loudly, and they drank freely, and they danced so carelessly. They had fun, and they joked around (he even found some of their jokes - the ones he could understand, at least - quite funny), and they were never afraid to speak out or get loud.
It hadn't taken a long time before he had started to realize that almost nothing he had once thought he knew of Muggles and the Muggle World was accurate.
Of course, it hadn't taken long for his fascination to wane and eventually his curiosity died down as well.
And he was back to sulking at the same bar he had entered over a month and a half ago, just down the street from his dingy flat. Lately, he had only gone during the day because it was not heavily occupied and people didn't stare at him as he sat at the bar by himself, drinking a beer sheepishly, as though afraid of it's affects. Tonight, however, he had felt the smallest of desires to watch the Muggles again.
They were just so interesting.
So he had adorned his typical attire of a black button up shirt, and blue jeans (he had made the mistake of wearing a tie and dress pants the first night, and was embarrassed to discover how ridiculously overdressed he was). He had hardly even ran a brush through his hair in weeks so he knew that it was fairly unkempt. He didn't mind a whole lot what the Muggles thought of his appearance, however, because he never spoke to them (with the exception of the bartender, that was. But even the talking between them had started to dwindle once the man had discovered Draco's routine of drinks). He just sat at his stool and stared at them.
He hadn't expected that night to be any different.
As he sat at his stool, however, this time facing the bar and just observing the crowd through the small, dirty mirrors that lined the cabinets, a young girl plopped herself down in the stool right next to him.
"Bonjour!" She greeted him. She was English.
He didn't answer her.
She had long, curly, dirty blonde hair that was cascading down her back and falling wildly in her bright grey-blue eyes. She wore a white halter top that showed off her slightly tanned shoulders (which also were home to a series of small freckles), and her beautiful build. She was curvy, but fit, and her short black skirt left just enough to the imagination. Her cheeks were flushed, and the little beads of sweat on her forehead alerted him that she had just been dancing in the crowd. There was something about her face that was familiar to him.
He felt as though he had met her before.
But that, he realized, was impossible.
She ordered a drink from the bar before turning to look at him.
"Do you speak English?" She asked him, catching his eye. He didn't respond to her he just continued to stare at her, unable to look away. Her eyelashes were dark and full and her lips were glossy and slightly pouty. He liked full lips though.
On witches, of course. Not on Muggles.
"Do you speak at all?"
She had raised an eyebrow at him and was leaning onto the bar, sipping on the drink the bartended had just handed her.
"I do when I have something to say." He responded coolly. The girl did not seem too put out by his answer, but she did look a little annoyed by it.
"Usually when somebody asks you a question, it requires an answer - which would be something to say, now wouldn't it?" She inquired smartly. Her voice was slightly scratchy as though she had been talking loudly for a long period of time and her vocal chords had started to ware from the stress and yet it had a bizarre comforting tone to it.
"You asked if I spoke, and I answered you." He did not really care to continue their conversation. He was not used to conversing with Muggles and it made him nervous. He didn't want to let something slip.
"I also asked if you spoke English, and you didn't respond." She retorted, clearly not ready to end their talk.
"Yes, I do speak English. Happy?" He was feeling grumpy now. He didn't want to be questioned or talked at. He just wanted to watch.
"That much I had gathered for myself, thanks. Where are you from?" She just wasn't going to go away.
"Wiltshire." He didn't bother inquiring as to where she was from. He knew she would tell him anyway.
"I'm from Watford." She didn't seem to mind the fact that he wasn't willing to converse back with her.
"What brings you to France?" She asked him, prodding even more. If it had been almost a year ago, he would have snapped at her, cursed her under his breath, or insulted her hugely not caring the slightest about how she felt.
But his emotions were drained, now. He could hardly muster enough energy to get angry at anything anymore, so he settled with being slightly annoyed.
"Personal stuff." He replied. He didn't feel that this was a rude thing to say, because it was a very personal reason he had come to France - he was escaping his family, and the entire wizarding community in England.
"Well, aren't you mysterious…" She said softly, catching his eyes in hers. He realized her eyes were actually quite similar to his own, except hers seemed much deeper - they held meaning within them, and passion, and life… all the things he had quite suddenly lost.
"I kinda like mysteries." She said, looking away from him and back at the bar.
He wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he just kept quiet, and returned his gaze to the bar, as well.
"I've been here for two years, today. My parents enrolled me in the dance academy down the road. It's one of the most prestigious in France. Although you could hardly tell that by the building - it looks like some shabby dance hall from the 1800s. Which, granted, it was once. But I guess Madame Pross, the owner and head dance instructor, just never felt like touching the place up. It's still kind of wonderful though - it makes you feel like you're part of history. Which I like because…" She stopped short and Draco turned and looked at her, suddenly intrigued. She did not continue, however, she merely continued to stare in front of her, sipping at her drink.
"It's not that great of a feeling, you know - being part of history."
Her eyes had gotten rather big when she looked back at him. She must not have expected him to respond.
"How do you figure?" She asked him, her shock fading and being replaced by curiosity (a look he knew all too well).
"Unless you're on the winning team, you are forever looked upon as the bad guy. Even if you repented in the end, even if some of what you did was heroic, it doesn't matter because you were on the wrong side, therefore you will never be recognized as anything other than a villain and a failure." He had almost forgotten he was talking to someone else, let alone a Muggle. He had become engulfed in his own self pity for a moment so he was taken aback when he heard her voice interrupting his thoughts.
"Maybe next time you should pick a better team, then." She said her voice light, as though she thought he was talking about sports teams instead of the Dark side versus the Light.
Which, he realized, was exactly what she probably thought.
"You don't always get a choice." He said coldly more to reassure himself that there hadn't been one, and that he had been forced into his position.
"There's always a choice."
He looked at her. She was smiling at him.
Why on earth was she smiling at him?
He couldn't manage to look away.
"For instance," She started again, the smile still lingering on her full lips (that he wouldn't have minded on any witch, but on her, of course, they were just average and he barely noticed them), "You could chose to come with me and embark on an adventure that will surely thrill, or you could chose to remain here, staring discreetly at all the people laughing, and drinking, and dancing." She had stood up now and was looking down at him (a feat, he noticed, considering she wasn't very tall).
He looked up at her and briefly debated in his mind.
He couldn't possibly go with her. She was a Muggle - she was gross - she was the enemy.
No.
Voldemort had been the enemy. They were just innocent bystanders.
So maybe it wouldn't hurt -
No.
She was annoying, and charming, and pretty -
No.
She was not pretty!
She was beautiful. Her eyes and her lips were simply marvelous. What it would be like to kiss -
No!
If he kissed her he wouldn't be any better than those half-breeds and mudbloods he had adamantly despised his entire life.
But this bar was getting crowded in a hurry. Where on earth did all these fucking people come from?!
He had to get out of here.
"Where to?" He asked, standing up and towering above her.
She smiled again and this time his stomach did a toss.
"You'll see." She said and with that she turned and headed for the exit. He hesitated for a moment before moving. Maybe he could just Apparate once outside and she wasn't looking.
Just as he thought about that, though, something nagged at the back of his mind. Something he had been missing for a long time was beginning to arise inside of him and it felt foreign to him now.
A sense of adventure.
He made up his mind.
He followed her out into the night.