Disclaimer: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K. and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes!
Somewhere Only We Know
Chapter Two
Talk of Targets
"Of course, Carl. Our world saying a... very... tearful, distraught—I'm not sure those words even quite do the job—goodbye to the tragic... excuse me." Sniffles, via Carl? Draco empathized. "The Ministry announcing, of course, the news, shortly after five this morning. It happened, they're saying, sometime around four in the morning, after the startling murders of two Cliffdales, Maureen and Alexander, both prominently talented youth of our society. Carl, I'll tell you; I just... it's amazing that we're still talking, here. I've never woken up to a more terrible morning in my entire life. If you're just turning in to the European Broadcasting Company on your Wireless Network Charm, Harry Potter has been found murdered, confirmed by both Albus Dumbledore and, less importantly—"
"Watch it, Jim, this station is still sponsored by the Ministry."
"Ministry or not, I give them me bloody middle finger this morning, Carl, and tell them to kiss my big fat hairy white arse! Anyway, Albus Dumbledore and the Ministry both confirming the news, multiple times. We're not sure, yet, what we're to do. We have to ask you out there to stay in your homes. Don't go wandering about. Please. It's very dangerous. It's… more than dangerous out there. It's a death risk for you to be out right now. You sit yourself at home, contact your family members, and just... I don't know. What do we even do, Carl?"
"I don't know, Jim. I just don't know. Sit and stare at the wall. Bless that kid, bless 'im."
"Again, this morning, Harry Potter has been murdered. The details have not been released, but it is confirmed. The Ministry will be holding a conference from inside the Ministers' secret location for safety reasons. There's no word, yet, if there is any relation to the murders of the Cliffdales and Harry Potter. Once, again, Minister of Magic, Lucius Malfoy, will be speaking later this morning. I'm sure it'll be, oh, informative, don't you think, Carl?"
"If by informative you mean completely void of any information, then, yes, Jim. Informative, indeed."
"Perhaps this could be our last day on this show, Carl. Dare I ask you to test your fate, for once?"
"Not until the conference, Jim. Afterward, I'll give the listeners an earful about Lucius Malfoy."
"O'course, it's nothin' that they don't already know, a'it?"
There was a small silence that finally made Draco lift his head from the bed, heart even heavier.
"Carl, did you hear what they're saying? Word has it that there's a ball, tonight, to celebrate the life of Harry Potter."
"Do I want to know who's throwing this party, Jim? Do I even... want to guess? Dare I?"
"I dare you."
"Lucius Malfoy, hmm, and the Ministry. I wonder who will be at that celebration."
"Voldemort'll be sponsoring it. I wouldn't be surprised. Carl?"
"Jim..."
"Bless the kid, Carl. He called the bastard by his name, and so should we. We're adults."
Draco's eyes finally flickered to the projection floating above the record player. It was about two feet in length and two feet in width, the projection. There were two men sitting in the small kitchen "studio" that they had started out in, in Carl's home. Both were chunky with strong accents, one British and one Scottish. Both had beards and were burly men, like lumberjacks or something of the sort. They had been of the working class, which was what had attracted so many wizards to tune into their show when it was on. Everyone loved Carl and Jim and their show—also appropriately entitled Carl and Jim. They delivered the news so earnestly and seriously, but now, this morning, they were both just slumped in chairs opposite of each other, just flipping through pieces of parchment, which Draco supposed were notes on the current happenings, press updates and releases, and their Floo network was wide-open, as he saw one of the interns for their show come through with an armful of papers and newspapers. Even he seemed distressed until he exited the view that Draco had; they all seemed helpless.
A ball, though? A ball to celebrate Harry Potter's life? It had to be a joke. Most certainly his father, Minister of Magic, who had done a pretty well job in regards to their economy and such, wouldn't stoop that low, even if he was much more than just a Voldemort supporter. It had to be a sick, twisted, disgusting joke that someone was playing—perhaps another Death Eater, just for kicks, or maybe even one of the Ministry's Press Officers. The two men definitely didn't seem to be joking about the rumors of a ball. It was just wrong, and everyone in their world was going to know exactly what that celebration was, because no one was going to show up but Voldemort's supporters, because everyone else would be hiding away in their homes. The original fear they'd had, about Lucius Malfoy being in the position of Minister, would return ten-fold. If Potter was gone, there was nothing really holding Voldemort back, was there?
Though he'd admired his father, Draco was not, and had never been, disillusioned about his father's corruption and ties, of their world's corruption with the Dark Arts, with Voldemort. He knew it was the end of an era—the all did, which was why everyone was terrified, which was why Jim and Carl hadn't gone to their real studio and were sitting at home with one of their wives making tea, leaning over the kitchen counter behind them, with her palm in her hands. What happened, now, he knew, was going to change not only their world but the world of the plain Muggle, and not to mention those whom crossed paths with a wayward wizard, with a Death Eater. He knew that it was very unlikely that any brave man was going to step up to the plate to take on the Ministry, to take on Voldemort.
There was only one man who would stand and rise when everyone else was quivering. It was Dumbledore who was going to have to be the one to stand up and fight. It always had been Dumbledore that supported the weak, the mud-bloods, the powerful, and the pure-bloods. He stood for every non-corrupt wizard in their world. Dark magic didn't mix with his veins, exactly, but he had the mind enough to know how Dark magic worked and why it appealed to the people it did. But, Dumbledore... Dumbledore had to be destroyed over Potter's death.
Thinking of this, Draco turned himself over and sat up on his elbows, his brain going a mile a minute.
Dumbledore was either going to rise to the occasion, and rise furiously to defeat Voldemort, or he was going to fail, and fail… miserably. There was no in-between, now, was there? There was no chance for Voldemort to be defeated by the prophecy that had come out, publicly, a year earlier, to their entire world. There was no Potter to save the day, no one powerful enough to bring Voldemort down, exactly, or get close enough. Even the whole mass of good in their world would be compromised if everyone stood up to fight. So many men and women, and even children, would be likely to die if put against the Death Eaters or against Voldemort, himself. How… how were they going to make it through, any of them? It was true that, if things did change very quickly, drastically, Draco would probably see his stock rise. His power would grow. His wealth would implode grandly. He would be safe, always. But he never felt safe, even now, and he could not imagine how it must have felt to be in the position of a Carl or a Jim, with a wife and children, terrified of what was going to happen, now, and having no way of predicting anything, either.
"Dumbledore's in hiding, we know that. His crew are. Aside from them, who do we got, Carl?"
"No one, right now, except for a couple of cocky, thickheaded teenagers who'll get killed for walking outside."
Draco tuned out the conversation at once, and he could only really hear the rush of blood to his head, which had not happened to him, really, in his life, and now he'd had it happen multiple times that morning. Across the room, in front of that open and very bright window, there seemed to be a… a shadow standing there. At first he'd thought it was just a shadow of his curtains, but no. It was more. It wasn't shadowed enough to be anonymous. His eyes stayed stabilized, not bothering to blink them away as if he somehow could have anyway. He knew it was his imagination that was beckoning him to see the outline of the lean, tall Harry Potter, but part of him could not help but question why the hair all over his body was sticking up. He waited for it to disappear to his eyes, to make sense of it, but nothing came. He even blinked and it remained, and when he finally felt that he wasn't insane, he went to question.
The door swung open, and the transparent shadow disappeared like it'd never existed.
Though feeling the startling disappointment, Draco still shot up, straight, and looked over at his door.
In waltzed his father, "Harry Potter's dead, and I get nothing from you but insults! Insults, no less, in front of men you know you damn well should not have spoken back-to, to me, in front of."
Draco carefully stood up from his canopied bed, shakily trying to deny the words, trying to deny that his father expected him to be slightly celebrating, but mostly he was shaky because of what he had just seen for not such a short period of time. He looked away from his father and walked in the direction of the Potter-esque shadow that had visited him only moments before, right hand slightly out and forward, at the ready, in case something popped out in front of him. He looked around, when he was standing in front of the window, as if searching for Potter to show up. He even checked behind the curtain, quickly, with a peek. Why would he even want Potter to show up? He was supposed to hate Harry Potter, wasn't that his stark position on the matter, anyway? Up until he had heard the news, only minutes before, he was sure he had hatred for Potter that no one would have ever been able to understand. Perhaps it was all really just unsettled and undigested anger.
Indeed, it was proving to be difficult to understand, even for Draco. Everything involving Potter was complicated, it seemed, and always had been. Even from the outside, there was nothing about Harry Potter that was ever true on first impression. Something was always complicated and wretchedly unfounded in his foundations to the public. Remembering this, with a frown, Draco's eyes turned back towards his father, as did his lean body, and he tried to get a hold of himself. Perhaps, too, it was too later, as his father was looking at him strangely, "It's too complicated for you to understand, father."
It was too complicated for Draco, himself, to fully understand. He was feeling more sorrow and anger over Potter's murder than the fact that he hadn't been able to help in the murder, as he had always laughed and been overjoyed about. He was not a caricature, no matter what anyone thought. He had issues with Potter, issues Potter hadn't known existed, and now they were to settle, too, still without closure.
Lucius's eyebrows rose sharply. He didn't bother to close the door, which meant that he must have ushered any of the estate's staff out of the wing enough to be addressing Draco as loudly and openly as he was, "Do explain yourself, Draco. What have I missed since last evening? I do recall a snipe remark, over dinner, about you dreaming of the day that Potter would be gone—just last night, I repeat."
"The chance of you knowing the answer to your own question is better than me knowing it, father. Go away."
"I don't understand, Draco," Lucius spoke, clearly bewildered, taking the time to make it very known.
"Well," Draco tried, but then groaned and turned to him, "I didn't understand anything about you until this morning, father." It all came out so fast. It was so furiously shaking in his veins. Something had taken him over, perhaps not being able to figure out where that stupid shadow had gone, as he was still irrationally looking around for it. "I didn't understand why you had rarely smiled at me in the recent months—never came to visit me at school, and when I came home to visit, you were never here. I never understood why you were so eager to please Him. I never got it," Draco almost whispered to himself, as he looked out of the black rod-ironed window that looked over a different view of the gardens. His left hand was against his chin, his fingertips pinching his bottom lip. His right arm was wrapped across his chest, nearly protectively. Even, in his ideally blank state, he could feel that his eyes were narrowed at his own words. "And, then, with your late entry to breakfast, I finally figured it out."
Lucius didn't ask him what he was talking about, and Draco felt overwhelmingly like a man because of it.
"I realized that Potter… was like Dumbledore, unsettlingly annoying… charming, even, and awkwardly witty, annoyingly good, and… a general people person. The world loved Potter, because, well," he flicked at the window, "he was… a good person." He couldn't believe he hadn't kept that to himself, that he had let it slip out of his own mouth, betraying himself, and to his father of all people. "Opposite, I am, like Him. There, always just there, cold, cunning, aristocratic, and a bastard, in general, to most people. No one would care if I would have been murdered." Draco spoke up a bit, lifting his chin, because something was liberating in admitting that. His long thumb stroked down the center of his chin, and then his left hand dropped. He turned halfway, his eyes settling back onto his father.
Something had happened, earlier, between them, when Draco had walked out on breakfast and did so while speaking with distaste of his father's behavior, but his appearance, so quickly after it had transpired, was unexpected. Unprecedented, really. It was a strange time for Lucius to come in on his high-horse and expect Draco to take him seriously as the ideal father-figure he had once been. Strange until he realized the look on his father's face was… almost vulnerable.
Draco had never seen his father look vulnerable like this, "What I realized, father, was that you care more about Potter, more about his death, more about your Lordship, more about your lord, and more about your power, than you do about me, your own son." He saw the anger flash. He was brave enough only to look away, and he did so. "If I would have been murdered, the world wouldn't have cared. I'm the Minister's son, sure, and I would make the papers, but... you, my own father, wouldn't care about the loss half as much as you care about Potter's. I wish I would have died instead of him, you know, just so he could wipe out your whole twisted mindset, somehow, and you could have been set straight."
Lucius stepped forward, with sallow, dark cheeks, and haunting eyes, and Draco saw so in the reflection of the window, "Draco, don't you dare—"
"What, pledge allegiance against you?" Draco unfolded his arms, with a laugh, as he faced his father, once more, and stepped, too, from where he'd stood calmly. "I won't pledge to Dumbledore, but sure as hell not Voldemort. And as long as you're off killing seventeen year olds, who hold the future of our ENTIRE WORLD in their hands, I won't pledge my allegiance to you, either."
"If you stop, now, we can pretend this conversation never existed," Lucius managed, after a moment.
"Father, you clearly don't understand what I'm trying to tell you," Draco interrupted, with a frustrated growl, "I don't want to keep pretending that everything is normal, that everything is okay, because it's not." Watching his father's eyes set into a very blank, hard stare, one that said nothing to him, Draco continued, trying to get the words through to him. He even threw his hands out in front of him, in the air between them, to try to get him to see that this was real, that Draco wanted him to hear him. "It is not okay with me, and I will have no part in it!"
All Lucius could offer, after staring back at Draco for at least ten seconds, was a, "I didn't kill him, Draco."
"You did your part," Draco muttered, as he turned away again. "But leave the bastard out of this. It's not about him, for once. It's about me, your son." He stood behind one of his couches, with his hands placed over the top of the center section. "It's about you needing to hear it. It's about you needing to accept it. It's about you understanding that I do not agree with you, I don't agree with your views, and I'd rather you kill me, yourself, than be forced into the barbarian mindset that you've taken on. Though it is your way of life, I've spent seventeen years of my entire life wasting time and breath and investing feeling into something I never believed it. It's not MY choice, it never was, to be part of your world, and you will not force me. The end, father! Do as you must—see me away from here, out of the inheritance—anything, just so long as you hear what I'm saying to you, right now, and accept it."
Narcissa appeared in the doorway, and spoke before Lucius, "Draco, please don't do this right now."
Lucius's eyes did not break away from his son's face, nor did his eyes blink or his face move the slightest.
Draco, not wanting to argue with his mother, or have her even hear the conversation, or be a part of it, turned to her, "Was I not raised, by the both of you, to make my own choices? My own decisions? To give up EVERYTHING for something I believed in?" He was angry with his mother for trying to dismiss this, now. She knew how big this was, for him to be this brave, to face his father directly and speak his displeasure openly without hiding behind words and tip-toeing around the issue. His eyebrows stitched as his mother looked at his father, with a sigh, but Lucius seemed to be in a trance and would not look away from Draco, and as frightening as that was, and even though Draco was unsure of what it meant, he could not back down, now. He had gone too far. "It backfired, I suppose."
"The annual ball is tonight, Draco. We should have spoken about this sooner, much sooner."
"Oh, like last week?" Draco turned away, aggravated by the sudden come-to-life comment his father had just said, quietly. It hurt so bad to feel the familiar feeling of hopelessness and cynical responses come out of him. "Or last month? Or the twenty letters I sent about it from Hogwarts? What about last summer? All of those conversations must have just slipped your busy mind, father. Merlin only knows how distracted you must have been with plotting murders and then covering up your tracks."
Never, not once ever, had Lucius's murders—aka "duties"—been spoken about. It was never, ever acknowledged.
It was obvious how shocking it was, by the loud gasp of his mother, and the stride forward that his father took toward him, with cold, cutting eyes. When Draco realized his father was advancing on him, his heartbeat quickened, and he was sure, momentarily, that he was about to be killed. Fear took him over. Somehow, though mostly because he was too paralyzed by that fear to move, he ended up staying right where he was, and like most times, his mouth went to save him in whatever way it could. "What, father, are you going to kill me? Curse me? Beat me? Strike me? Go ahead, go ahead and prove to me what I already know, that you're an evil, corrupt, murderous, manipulative, power-hungry, disillusioned prick." And, he didn't feel a hit of any kind, so his eyes rose to look at his father, from where he had been staring out the windows with his best careless, non-terrified expression, though he was sure he had failed. "How about kicking me out, would that do? I'll leave, willingly, and I'll take my muggle clothing with me. I know how happy that would make you."
Lucius was stopped and completely immobile, staring eye to eye with Draco, though from feet away.
Draco held his head just as high as his fathers, not afraid of staring his father straight on, now, for the first time ever, during confrontation. He had made his father stop, cold. He had had an impact. The lock of eyes broke, and his father turned, sharply, looked at his mother, without conviction, without anger, and without fury. A huge knife seemed to be slicing across his chest as he saw the hurt in his father's eyes. Pain? Hurt? Vulnerability? What was going on? His father had never shown any of those things, no matter how verbal Draco had ever been with him. Astonished with this reaction, Draco's blood started to chill and ice over, his heart started to pound furiously. He hated how he could dislike his father so much and then feel like he was Voldemort's soulless scum the moment he knew he had hurt his father, even if his father hadn't shown it. Now that there was something else there, it hurt even more.
They had had their fights in the past, but Draco had never called him evil. Draco had never called him a prick or a son of a bitch. He had never been willing to leave. And he most certainly had never said that he would willingly leave his own home just to get away from his father. Still, with the faltering pain, his silver eyes watched as his father turned around and walked right out of the room, not very slowly, past his mother, who silently stared at Draco with stunned blue eyes, like she could not believe he was her son. She seemed almost afraid to look at his father, too, though.
"You should not have said that to your father."
"It needed to be said, and you both needed to hear it. Now, please," his voice cracked, but he was trying to maintain an air of maturity. He had just taken on his father, so he knew he damn well couldn't crumble into a mess of emotions with his mother right there. "Leave me be."
"Draco, he does love you. You should not have spoken to him that way, with those words. That was… beyond out of line."
"I should not have told him the way I felt? That's grand, mother. Do you have any more passive opinions from the fifties that you would like to share with me?" She looked stung, but he didn't care. He glowered at her, feeling disheartened that his mother discouraged him from speaking these things to his father, like she hadn't heard his frustrations, and even his tears, over the matter in the past. "Tell him not to expect his son to be proud that his father is a murderer. Ask him if he expects his son to look past that. I can't look past it, anymore."
Narcissa sighed, about four times, before finally muttering, "Since when have you disapproved?"
"Since when have I?... Are you serious, mother? SINCE ALWAYS! GET OUT!" Draco shouted at her, appalled that she'd even ask him that sort of question. Had he ever even APPROVED of his father being a murderer? No! He had dealt with it, he had dealt with his father being a Death Eater, but that was because he'd preferred not to think about what that entailed! That didn't mean that he approved of murder, of death to innocent men, women, and children. She had closed his door for him, as soon as he had finished yelling at her, without another word. He wasn't raised to yell at women, but he was furious that she had even asked him that sort of question. If she thought her son to be evil enough to accept, openly, that being a murderer should be okay in his eyes, she was insane.
Draco climbed into his covers, with the numb of the morning still in his blood, and willed himself to sleep.
Sometime later, a form plunked down onto the bed, "Do wake up. You look horrid."
Draco's growled, wrinkling his forehead. He'd never fallen completely asleep, but he had taken a sip of a Potion one of the house-elves kept around for peaceful pre-sleep, so his mind hadn't had to wander and analyze, "What are you doing here, Zabini?"
"Your mother is worried about you, and she sent me up to check on you." There was a slight pause, and Draco could tell he wanted to ask what was particularly this wrong. "My whole family is here, downstairs. The Ministry put together… quite a masterpiece with such little notice."
Draco had been trying to ignore the fact that his schoolmate, and one of his closest friends in the world, had been walking around in his room, for a good five minutes, before he had attempted waking Draco. At Hogwarts, it was just a known fact that the person who would wake Draco up out of a deep sleep would have his pants hexed down multiple times a day and usually in front of large crowds. Acknowledging Blaise's words, Draco knew that it must have been true, and he must have had been sleeping for a very long time, indeed. He very much loved Potions that made him sleep, and loved them more because he was able to escape his mind for awhile. This affirmation of the ball, however, woke him up quite unpleasantly. Granted, he was pleased and felt slightly liberated that no one had dared come to wake him up, not even his house-elves, but this was most unpleasant news. How could his father have had allowed this? If he had wanted to appease Draco, this hadn't been the way. If he'd wanted to further prove to Draco that, on his list of important priorities, Draco came very last, he had done precisely what he'd needed to.
With a scowl to match the day, the events of which suddenly came back to him like bullets with vengeful butterfly wings flapping angrily, he pushed himself up onto his hands and then sat up straight on his knees after climbing to them, restless and feeling sick to his stomach with emotions he could not quite place so soon after waking up. He looked right at the dark-headed seventeen year old lounged out, now, effortlessly and carelessly on his own pillows. "Zabini, your eyes are swollen."
"A fine observation, Draco, but one from which you can not hide," Blaise responded, immediately. It was obvious that they were both having a confusing day and both over the same reactions, probably, to the same news. "He's dead, shouldn't we be celebrating? You've been talking about this day for years, so why in the hell are you laying on your bed, looking a hot mess, no less? And, your hair, Draco. Really? You must be devastated to have let it get to this state—been tossing and turning for hours?"
"What's wrong with my hair?" Draco immediately snapped, it being the first thing he could respond to without letting Blaise in on just how accurate he was about Draco's current "state." He climbed off of his bed, as if to clarify that he wasn't moping over Potter, and that, hell no, he wasn't looking a mess over Potter. But he was—just, Blaise didn't have to know, was all. The morning had started off so easily, with a pop out of bed, and he'd been so… happy. It was the summer holiday, and he was home, and the next year, he was supposed to go back to Hogwarts, see Potter on the first day, and assess what their relationship, if any at all, would be like in the year to come, like he'd done every year. But no. He sighed, as he was faced with his reflection in the mirror. "Bloody hell."
Blaise wasn't exaggerating. Draco's hair, which had never, ever been a mess when he was in front of anyone other than his house-elves and parents, was tousled and free, no longer combed neatly and properly tended-to. His face has lost some of its usual glowing, Cheshire-cat likeness, as well, and he only knew this because he had come to this conclusion on his own. His smirk had never been entirely his own, rather a man name Cornwell's, who gave credit to the Cheshire Cat, himself. He stepped closer to his mirror, which was above the long wooden bureau, in which his clothes were neatly pressed, folded, and put away. His hands cupped around his face, almost making sure that the person in the mirror was really him. It was.
"Go, get yourself together. Some of the others were here, too. I'm sure they'll be up to see you if you don't show up downstairs sooner or later. Took me ten minutes to get to your wing, you know, but those girls always do manage to find you super quickly."
Draco walked towards his bathroom, silently, without having replied. He stopped, though, and turned around to face his friend. Still, Blaise seemed distracted and distant, but not distant from Draco, himself. His hands clutched on his sides, lightly, and he lifted his eyes up to the huge ceiling, feet and feet above him, knowingly in a certain amount of worry over a few different sub-sections in his mind. Always a Malfoy and a Slytherin, he was prone to organization, even in his mind, "What happened to us?"
"If this were yesterday, I would say nothing. But, with my tears about Potter, and your... breakdown, which is building up, over Potter, I'm sure, I'd say that what is happening to us is nothing good. Me, with the witty comebacks, today, and you with the lack of snarky bitterness? Me, having to be forced, by your mother, to come up here and make sure you show up downstairs WITHOUT being forced? It's just not right."
"She told you, then?" Draco sighed, defeated, as he walked into his bathroom.
"No, but I think she figures I'm the only one of your friends who won't tell a soul about your hesitance."
Draco stepped out of the bathroom, holding a black comb, in mid-air, up by his left ear. He only really peeked out, though, having little energy to move the extra foot, "It's not that, Zabini," he assured, without trying to hide it. "My father waltzed into breakfast, this morning, with a whole troop behind him, all of 'em looking like death was knocking right on their chests—and they were opening the door with welcoming arms. The doors were pushed open so fast they could've unhinged. Picture my father smiling. Genuinely, at that."
Blaise suddenly looked bewildered, and then laughed, "I've never seen him smile, actually."
"That's the point exactly," Draco explained and pointed his comb at Blaise, who was nodding his head, as if he were trying to understand. He did sit up, though, seeming very interested in the conversation. "Beaming, ear to ear, shaking the Daily Prophet in the air like he'd just been given the Alchemist's Dream Stone." He shook his right hand up in the air, imitating his father and reliving the moment. He, however, wasn't smiling. He combed the rest of his hair back, returned his comb to the bathroom, and then reemerged back out into his bedroom. "I don't know what happened when I saw Potter's picture. I didn't even have to read the headline. Something just... snapped. I'll kill you if you ever tell anyone this, but since you're here, and neither of us downstairs, I feel it's all right, just for today: I feel like we're all completely fucked. I was counting on that asshole."
Blaise nodded his head along with the words, "I heard it on the Network when it was first reported. I had just woken up. I thought it was a dream—and then I started to think it was a nightmare. I felt so... horrible."
Draco sat down beside him, on the bed, and stared out the bright windows, which were all now open, the curtains having been pulled away to let the sunlight stream in. He didn't even understand his own reaction to the news, "I was so furious at my father. The joy on his face was there because Potter had been…" He found that each time he went to say it, it got harder to say, "murdered. Murdered, Blaise, like it was something to celebrate. He's—was—our age," he hissed, under his breath, his eyes flickering back to his friend, who was only still staring out the windows, too, completely still. "I knew it had been coming for quite some time, now. My mother knew. My father ignored it. But, when I saw him, and then saw that pathetic little picture of Potter, from last summer, that they used in the paper, it was like being slapped with reality."
"I understand my father's politics. I understand he was raised the way he was. I understand... that anything other than a pureblood isn't acceptable to him. I get that. I get that he found some God-like figure in Voldemort." He was shoved by Blaise, who then looked around, paranoid. Draco ignored the reaction. "I always tried to ignore the fact that I hated everything he stood for. I thought I was a pansy of a man because I didn't understand why he had to take his political and social views and turn them into action—and not just action, Blaise, but murder."
"Draco," Blaise suddenly asked, and he seemed shaky, "what did you do? What did you say to him? Your mother looked so strained when you were mentioned. Everyone was asking where you were, and she just... your father was right there, and he didn't answer, just looked at your mother and then excused himself. It was awful—downright terrible. The papers will be full of gossip."
Draco lowered his head and laughed, lightly, over Blaise's question, "I told him I wasn't going to pledge my loyalty to him, or Vold—okay, okay! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He never forced me into the circle, and he probably avoided my reluctance for my own good, for the good of our family. I kept finding ways to avoid talking to him about it. I even set the kitchen on fire, once, so I didn't have to talk about it, did I tell you?"
Blaise suddenly burst out in laughter, "No."
Draco sheepishly grinned, still looking at his hands, "I did. I think he realized, then, that I needed time."
"I can't even imagine you saying that to your father. You're supposed to be his prodigy."
"Yeah," Draco chuckled at the vision that his father had had for him. "I told him I thought he was evil."
Blaise emitted a loud groan, "Merlin, Draco! Your father wasn't anywhere to be seen downstairs! Now I know why."
"Like that's my fault," Draco interrupted, rising from the edge of the side of his bed closest to the windows. He walked toward them, giving a dry, frustrated laugh. He hadn't quite noticed the expression on Blaise's face just yet. Every time he'd said murder, however, he'd seen Blaise clench a fist or sturdy a shaking foot. "He knew it was coming, Zabini, he just didn't want to see it, or maybe he did see it, but he didn't want to acknowledge it, so his own son wouldn't turn against his ideals. And, then, he asks me why I'm not happy about Potter's death, like he's offended!" Laughing with loud, furious anger, Draco spun around and slightly leaned forward, his hands outstretched to Blaise, who was just staring at him. He wanted Blaise to understand, and now it dawned on him that Blaise was wearing that expression, somewhat unreadable, full of confusion and regret. "What'd he want from me? To ignore that he's a murderer? To think nothing of the fact that he murdered Harry fucking Potter, directly or indirectly, and then was the happiest he's been, in YEARS, because of it? No! He's a blooding FUCKING PRICK."
"Draco, you're not going to... pledge?"
"Never," the silver-headed young man hissed at even the mention of pledging. "I'll die before I pledge."
"Uh, I'm pledging."
Draco didn't turn back around to Blaise, "Don't miss the celebration in the ballroom, then."
"It's not like that."
"It is like that. You're pledging yourself to be a murderer, and that merits idiocy."
"I can't revolt against my entire family, Draco."
Draco turned around, after a long silence. He was just in time to see that Blaise was storming for his door, in a powerful exit. Draco followed him, at ease, feeling sick to his stomach at what had come out of Blaise's mouth. How could Blaise pledge to the Death Eaters? How could his best friend, in the world, be more concerned with how his family would react than concerned about having to actually murder fellow citizens—innocent wizards who Blaise knew and talked to on a daily basis? It was wrong and twisted, and if Blaise wanted to try and excuse himself to Draco, he had another thing coming, "No, you're too much of a chicken-shit to revolt against your family. You think your mother is going to be happy that you're pledging, you thick-headed bastard? You could revolt against your father all you want to, Blaise, and you damn well KNOW your mother and sisters would be on your side."
"Fuck you, Draco," Blaise bit back, when he had the door open. "You know it and I know it; they aren't going be thrilled that Lucius's own son isn't going to pledge in July. For fuck's sake, your father is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's right hand man! And you think he's going to want you in your father's home, when you have no loyalty to keep, to yourself, what you hear around here? You're going to make your father a target—"
"Make my father a target!" Draco exploded, angrily, standing back at one of his many large, open windows, because he did not trust himself to be close to Blaise. The idiocy coming out of Blaise's mouth sent cringes of disaster up his own spine. Blaise was pledging himself to a terrible life sentence. Was this what Blaise honestly thought? Did he not look further into the whole situation of Voldemort's crew expecting their sons and daughters to pledge? Did he not see that he was believing exactly what they wanted him to believe? "That's something he should have thought about before he made his own UNWILLING, unborn son a target seventeen years ago! I was never given a choice, Blaise, and you weren't either! It's just what they're molding you to be! Why can't you see that!" He threw his arms out! "What have we always seen them as? You want to be that? A murderer who agrees to do it out of fear?"
Blaise went silent before he turned around, walked out, and slammed the door to a close behind him.
"Make my father a target," Draco repeated, haughtily, and then kicked his wall. He doubled over, then, a few seconds later, but did not immediately get back up. Instead, drained in so many ways, still, he just sat back against his wall, clutching his toes as the throbbing began to wear off. "I really need to think before I do that next time."
It was some time around night-break that Draco walked out of his bedroom and into the grand hallway that was outside of it. He was dressed no differently than he had been most of the day so far. He was feeling a little disoriented with everything that had happened, of course—who wasn't?—still not knowing exactly what to make of his world, that morning, and he had no one to turn to, really, whom he could speak about such things with. It put a sizable kink in the acceptance process. He had no intention of joining the gathering in his home even if there might have been a legit celebration going on, because he knew that later, when the cameras had left, there would be a private gathering, and he really didn't want to be there for that. He did, however, know exactly where some of the guests, more notably female guests who had an ear for rumors and mouths for days, would be standing around and gossiping, now, and that was in the front entry hall.
Draco walked from the wing that his bedroom was in until he reached the balcony that looked down upon the entry hallway. It was a beautiful, grand room, with ceilings that rose up into beautiful carved cathedrals of dark wood and tinted colors that made beautiful murals. He made his way, albeit slowly, towards the center of the balcony, hearing the chattering and hushed whispers of guests. It sounded like a thunderous gathering, so he allowed himself to walk to the center of the balcony to take it in. He kept a small distance from leaning against the wooden and dark-stoned barrier, but he was close enough to see all of the guests, being able to identify them by their clothing, voices, hats, robes, and faces.
"Where had Lucius disappeared to again, Narcissa? Ministry business, I suppose? Looking at his speech?"
Narcissa was a wonderful actress, and Draco thought it was inspiring, "Oh, yes, of course," she replied to the woman, very notably tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear—a tick, Draco knew! "Ministry business, of course. With Harry Potter's murder and the murder of Maureen and Alex, he has a lot to be keeping an eye on."
"Maureen and Alex? Do you mean the Cliffdales? Narcissa, I didn't know you knew them so personally."
Hmm, it was a wonder that that woman didn't know anything about anyone, especially his mother! Draco's eyes examined the batty, elegant woman standing opposite of his mother with a bit of a cocked eyebrow and lidded eyes. She spoke in such a loud, shrill voice. Everyone knew what was being said between them, obviously, because of the continued tone from the woman. She was the best gossip in all of London. Seeing that his mother was uncomfortable with the questioning about the Cliffdales, Draco cleared his throat and he did what he did best whenever his grandmother was making his mother uncomfortable: distract her, "Dear, dear Grandmother Rose."
Draco was leaning against the balcony with his arms crossed over his chest, at ease, when the attention of many of the ladies, in close proximity to him, turned to find the source of the gentle, though quite strong, voice. He was very good at acting, himself, and he saw his mother give him a sweet smile, at once, that was a mix between a "I'm glad you've decided to come down" and a "Thank-you for distracting your grandmother," and he smiled back before he glanced at his grandmother. "That's a beautiful broach. Is it new?"
The lady loved talking about her shopping expeditions even more than she loved talking about herself, and it was quite an understatement to say that that was a lot. Immediately, she patted her hand over her diamond-encrusted broach and shrilly replied, though she was slightly smiling at Draco's appearance in the hall, "You, boy! What! Where are your dress robes? Narcissa, your boy is informal! And addressing me as such without a title? Look at him, with those—"
"Muggle clothing at a formal magic event; it's horrendous, isn't it, Rose?" Questioned a dull voice, which silenced all of the waiting guests in the more private area of the hall. It was Lucius, who had stepped out from behind a door to the left of Draco's view, which he knew to be one of his father's business studies. His father conducted many personal meetings and deals in that room and spent a great deal of time, by himself, in that room. "You'll have to excuse my son, everyone. He has forgotten his manners. Draco, do approach your grandmother more appropriately when you apologize to her. Only after, of course, you go and change into your robes."
Draco's eyes fell upon his father, whom appeared both bored and upset with him. Draco was not exactly back in obedient son mode, and he openly smiled at his father, so he knew what was coming. He dropped his own arms to his sides, to appear less defensive or insecure, as he took a step down one stair, "I'd rather not look like a poof today, father. I'm in my own home, am I not?" He saw his father look bewilderedly at his mother, very tensely, and then back up to him. "But because everything that you say has to go, or else I'll be punished, I must go change into my robes. After I do so, I'll burn my muggle clothing and then come down and join you and your... sophisticated friends for a nice quiet tea before your ball to celebrate the life of Harry Potter. Then I will watch your... sincere press-conference about what a tragedy his death is. You'll let me know when I can speak, thereafter, father, yes? And you'll have to tell me when I can stand, too. Oh, and, of course, you'll have to let me know when I can use the toilet."
Narcissa chuckled, and even Rose did, with a bit of a proud smile at Draco, which he felt warmed by.
"Fine, Draco, stay in your muggle clothes and brood," Lucius retorted, before Draco could continue on in his at ease, yet very pointed, tone. This was nothing surprising to anyone. Draco and Lucius always battled over his clothing, and plus, it was pretty much all his relatives around, now, in the hall, as it was the more private hall. With nothing more to say on the subject, he turned his attention away from his son, who seemed completely content in his muggle clothing, even though it was improper and appalling to the many guests in the entry hall when the event was supposed to be formal. He glanced, once, back at Draco, who was standing tall with his hands on the banister. "You see, ladies and gentlemen, Draco is a man, now. He has informed me that he's moving out later today. His things, of course, are already being packed."
Draco blinked, confused, but then smirked, quickly, when he realized he wasn't to react childishly, "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's true," he sighed, so heavily, like he was ashamed to admit it. His father looked up at him, because Draco was imitating him. "I have a mind of my own, therefore, according to Articles A and B of the Malfoy Dungeon Ward Laws—although it should be there is nothing ethical about them in the first place, so why should this be a surprise—I shall be banished and slash or disowned, depending on whether or not I bow to my father, because appeasing him is, naturally, the most important thing in the world!"
"Draco, why do you hurt your grandmother so?" Rose asked, though not entirely serious, still smiling a bit.
"Sorry, Grandmother," Draco apologized, and then sighed. "It's the muggles. They must have brainwashed me."
"Narcissa, when did Draco become so annoying?" Lucius asked, before he turned and looked straight up at Draco, again, with threatening, although more annoyed, eyes. "Go along and play, Draco. You are, after all, a man, now, and you don't need to be standing listening to your father's conversations. That's child's play, like eavesdropping. Hurry along, now, or you'll miss your manicure appointment."
Draco paled, "Yes, you should try one. The blood must get beneath your fingernails. You do wear gloves."
A pin dropping onto the floor could have been heard.
Draco stared at his father, not at all amused by his mocking words. Draco had never claimed that he was a man. Making his own decisions about his morals was a manly thing to do, and his father thought that DRACO was the feminine, misinformed one? And why? Why? Because Draco didn't want to be a murderer, at the end of the day. He didn't want to contribute to the murder of innocent people. It was like his father thought that something was wrong with Draco for not wanting to have a hand in such things, which was absurd. Seeing the intense fury in his father's eyes gave him enough satisfaction. He looked down at all of the guests, mostly his uncles, with disproving eyes. They were a sorry lot.
"Draco, one more word and I swear to Merlin," his father hissed through clenched teeth. It was sharply heard, "I will kill you, myself! Not another word! Not another sentence! Go! Leave. Go to your room. Go out. Go. Just go. And, tonight, if you are not IN THE BALLROOM, after the ball has begun, dressed in respectable attire, with your manners, and more than willing to take part in the evening's business festivities, I will kick your scrawny little ass out onto the streets. No money, no nothing. Go, get out of my sight, you ungrateful bastard. GO!" Instead, furious and very obviously upset that he was having to yell at Draco, Lucius was the one who exited. He stormed to his tall, gothic office doors, his robes swishing madly behind him, and disappeared into the black space, and closed the door, quietly, behind him.
Draco was already down the hallway when he heard the door close. The entry hall was still silent, but he didn't care. His father thought he could just insult Draco like that in front of company, and then expect Draco not to retaliate? It was horrible and hurtful enough that his father and mother, both, dismissed his feelings and his wishes, but doing so in front of relatives, relatives who grated at his nerves, was a very low thing to do. Furious at his father for every damned thing between them, Draco entered his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. "Bastard!"
After hours and hours of pacing on the floor of his bedroom, deciding whether or not to attend his father's ball, he finally came to the conclusion that he had to go. It was in his own home, all of his friends would be there, and though his father was a complete asshole, sometimes, and wanted his son to be a murderer—there was no getting past that word in his mind!—Draco didn't want his father to be singled out by Voldemort for not having had his son attend the evening and have it be known that he was actually at the estate while the event had been happening. He would go, he decided, and observe the party. He would smile, nod his head, and try not to show the dislike for his father. That would, however, mean that he was going to have to, essentially, avoid his father for the whole night which was, by all society standards, impossible.
Done up in fantastic red robes, which he was wearing as a personal statement in honor of Potter's death—what, the massively passionate Gryffindor crimson just happened to be the same color as air-exposed blood, sure. Yes, that was, indeed, true. He dressed to suit himself, for the night, and he knew he looked damn good, which was enlightening, because if people were distracted by looking at him, he wouldn't have to engage in unwanted conversation. It was a perfect balance, really, if he was going to try and survive the evilness and soullessness of the night. It was worse that it was evilness he had still been semi-embracing until that very morning, and his brain wouldn't let him forget it.
Standing at the top of the grand entrance stairs, he could see the crowd of wizards and witches that had gathered, from all over the world, adorned in expensive dress robes and fancy hair styles, holding wine glasses or snatching one off of a silver tray as a waiter swerved in and around mingling parties. It was the Minister's Ball, whether or not Harry Potter was dead, and most people would rather trade an arm than miss the annual Minister's Ball—this was the place to be. His eyes drowned, dully, and unhappily, in the ear-shattering chatter of the grand entry room, though. He was standing in the same place as had been, before, when he and his father had engaged in that nice verbal sparring of public words that Draco was regretting, now, after having though about it.
From the ballroom, he could hear the distant pop-brilliance of an old nineteen-eighties song playing over the record machine. He knew it because he knew it was a muggle song called Heaven is a Place on Earth, but he didn't dare joke about the fact that his father had refused to listen to muggle ANYTHING, in his house, when Draco had been growing up. Still, now, it was re-recorded by some awful pure-blood superstar who was known for eating Cheese-puffs and lip-synching. Giving in, Draco finally trotted down the grand staircase, looking above all of the heads and right to the open, lengthy entrance doors. He wanted to bail, and he was under the impression that he wouldn't be missed, nor would his lack of presence be noted.
However, Draco did stick around just long enough to see his father's twenty-two year old "mistress" falling all over him, right in front of Draco's own mother. Disgusted, yet highly entertained by the look of panic and discomfort that had washed over his father's face, at the presence of his mistress, Draco leaned back against the in-house bar area of the ballroom, watching from a distance. Once his mother walked away, with a horrible stare at his father, Draco couldn't help but chuckle. What kind of mistress greeted her man, that way--or any way, really—In front of his WIFE? Come on, now, friends. Did she need lessons on how to be subtle? Even her dress was as far from subtle as possible. His eyes skipped over the crowd, however, looking for any sign of someone he could get a clear read on.
In front of the grand entrance doors, a new entrance was about to be announced. As the announcer went to say his name, to present him, like he had every other guest, the young man stepped right through, without his introduction. Impressed, and a little amused, Draco felt his eyes squint and his posture straighten. At last, when his eyes found the face of the equally-aged wizard, he stood up completely straight from lounging across out against the bar. The young man was looking around, and, as Draco stepped forward, casually, still trying to examine the extremely pretty face of the young man opposite of him, a pair of dark eyes settled right back onto him. At once, Draco found a genuinely-likable smile, "Judas Cliffdale, my how you've grown," he greeted as the space between them closed to about five feet, in the center of a large crowd, all having turned their attention, immediately, to the new arrival who had been announced as Judas Cliffdale.
Judas stopped, and then Draco did, "You look exactly the same, Draco. Just larger, with ego."
Draco grinned, coolly, impressed by the words that immediately hit him back. Now, he hadn't seen Judas Cliffdale in about eleven years. But, when you have a childhood friend, a childhood best friend, you remember, distantly, every feature and the overall appearance of the once-upon-a-time memories. It hadn't been hard to place Judas. He was gorgeous, honestly, and Draco would admit it to himself. He had been a pretty boy, even when they'd been little, with extremely long, dark eyelashes that hooded over honey-brown eyes. It was how Draco had first immediately put a name to a face, and then, having added in the soft, perfect, somewhat small nose, and the strongly defined cheekbones and full lips, it had all come together. Of course, not having seen each other in such a long time, Draco had no idea how to talk to Judas, and even less of an idea of what to even say. But he was in a pissy mood, angered with the day, angered with the death of Harry Potter, and, well, he didn't feel like being all that proper in reintroducing himself, and Cliffdale would just have to deal with that.
It appeared that he didn't have to, either.
"Which seems impossible, because you were always pretty full of yourself, even at four."
Draco half-smiled, but he said nothing. It was a real smile that had appeared on his lips. When Judas had said what he had, Draco hadn't felt offended or the need to be on the offensive. He was just being teased. It proved that Judas remembered Draco just like Draco had remembered Judas. There was a bond there, but Draco wasn't sure why it was as strong as it was. Inwardly feeling vulnerable to the bright, deep brown eyes, that were still looking him over, Draco stepped forward a bit, coolly, shaking himself out of it. Judas's arrival had attracted way too much attention for Draco's liking, especially when they were all staring at him. Couldn't they have been a bit less intrusive? The man's mother and brother had just been murdered, "Come on, we'll find my mother. She wanted to be alerted as soon as you arrived."
"Wait," Judas laughed, as Draco began to guide him away from the eyes of some of the most socially and economically powerful wizards in their society. However, Judas didn't stop walking with Draco, just kept his attention on Draco rather than everyone else. He did glance around, though, once, before he looked back at his childhood best-friend. At his words, Draco stopped, awkwardly, when he noticed just why Judas was staring at his face, so focused on something below his lip. "Your scar is gone."
Draco didn't understand, for a long moment, but then he looked down at the floor, touching his fingertips to an area below the right corner of his mouth. How had Judas even remembered that scar? Then, again, remembering that he, himself, had recognized certain small features about Judas, like the light, hardly-noticeable scar on the bottom of the opposite lip, it wasn't a surprise that Judas would be looking. At the time, after it had happened, when he had been asked to get it removed, by his father, he had been so angered. It had been a battle-scar of Draco's. But, over the years, it had slipped his mind, "Oh, yeah, a few years ago." He, then, paused, finding the scar on the smooth face opposite of his. "You still have yours."
The dark-haired young-man smirked, hard, "You pansy, I bet your father made you get rid of it."
Draco's jaw dropped, stunned, when the words had left Judas's mouth. WHAT! Wait a second! He blinked, twice, in awe of the sudden words that had left a burn mark slapped across his face, "Did you just call me a pansy? You just called me a pansy," he half-chuckled, under his breath, thinking he might have heard wrong. No, actually, he knew he hadn't, but he had to check. Judas was scarily accurate. Lucius HAD made him get it removed before he had started Hogwarts. It had never been too noticeable, but it had always "flawed" his face, or so his father had told him. His father had always been more concerned with Draco's face than his mother had been
Judas smiled, lightly, and it was clearly full of ease. He nodded, but continued walking, as he laughed, "I have my answer."
Draco turned his attention away from Judas, because he had immediately been pulled away by a group of women who had called him by his first name. It seemed that they did know him, genuinely, and after the original startled response of being tugged away from Draco, he seemed to return the affectionate greeting to them. While this was going on, Draco's eyes tried to search the crowd for his mother, but they ended on his father, who was standing at the side of a makeshift stage, his eyes on fire, sipping away on something clearly alcoholic, watching Draco very closely. This expression burned Draco's chest, so he immediately looked away. His father had never been the type to brood in public, especially not so openly, and especially not about Draco.
Distractedly, Draco placed his left hand carefully over Judas's shoulder, interfering in the words that were being shared. For a long moment, Draco was floored, listening to the condolences coming out of the mouths of the women surrounding the blank, completely rigid lean form that was Judas Cliffdale. A strong burn took over Draco's hand, so he immediately withdrew it, his lips parting in shock. What in Merlin's name! Ignoring the pain of the electrically static shock that Judas had just given him, and more concentrated on the quickly deadening eyes that were narrowing on Judas's face, Draco physically intervened, slightly stepping in front of Judas, "Excuse me, ladies, if I could just steal him back from you? Thanks."
Instead of trying to guide Judas away, Draco just looked right at him with alert and suspicious eyes, though they were not for Judas to see. He didn't have to guide Judas away, because he was already walking straight through the small circle of ladies, his dark eyes sparkling with fury and anger, as they parted the way for him, eyes trailing after him with a bit of confusion and some offense when he didn't excuse himself. Draco didn't say anything to them, or even look at them, as he followed the dark being in front of him. Not once did Judas stop walking through the crowd of ever-parting people, clearly not knowing where he was headed and clearly not caring about where he ended up. However, as Draco followed, he did look at everyone else. The way their eyes landed on Judas was... so... scary.
It dawned on him, then, that, although this had been his friend when they'd been little, this was still Judas Cliffdale. His father's arts were the darkest practiced. His appearance was gorgeous, but his eyes were so furious, so seemingly dark and mysterious, but only by perception. What was under them, Draco knew, was something that no one could relate to, really, not even him. No one had his upbringing, or his talent, Draco assumed, or his legend, and that was something he could relate to. No one had his father or his social status. No one was feared so strongly, having been hidden away from the world and living under legend and myth. But was it myth? No, it was true, and the myth was spiraling out of hard control, leaving a seventeen year old to leave the world he had known to live in a world he didn't know, where peoples' eyes feared him, awed over him, and tried to hide from him. They wanted things from him, all of these people who his family was in cohorts with, and the way they were all turning to look at him, straight out of a muggle movie, even made Draco's spine crawl. Whatever issues he'd had with his father, he suddenly felt very grateful that his father had raised him as he had, not hidden his family away like Gregarold Cliffdale had. Still, though, Draco couldn't help but ask himself, as he watched Judas, too. Why did he seem quite so familiar? This aura that he put off, where he dared not be touched if one wanted to live… it wasn't entirely unfamiliar.