APATHY
"So, Zabini." Draco paused, his voice colorless - frustration was mounting in the creases of his cool eyes. "The Dark Lord enlisted you to assist me?"
Blaise cocked an eyebrow, his dark eyes watching each toss of Draco's apple. "I believe you heard me, Malfoy. Not quite enlisted as I am burdened with the knowledge after my mother eavesdropped. Regardless of if I was enlisted or not, I'm not dealing with your false air of superiority either way, nor am I interested in your glory."
Draco sneered, wholly pleased with Blaise's words, but not completely liking the arrangement. Blaise had no reason to snap. "Don't be a prat, Blaise. You must understand the importance of my mission."
The darker boy laughed, the tension alleviating in the air. He had the same, smoky laughter of his mother that oozed pure sensuality, as well as the same exotic features. Draco found himself sufficiently amazed by the Italian time and time again - there was something undeniably sexy about him, and it caused a stirring in the blond's groin. However, Draco had become adept at pretending that the brunet had not affected him, and thus managed to look away apathetically.
"I understand," Blaise finally hummed, taking a sip from the water glass at his side. "You are not anguished over the secrecy of your mission being compromised, yes? Although I can assure you I want very little in these proceedings as possible."
Draco frowned, considering how many variables seem to keep coming in-between him and Voldemort. His mother had spoiled each and every task he was given, taking it upon herself to "save his soul." Draco half-considered that it was the Dark Lord's plan all-along; by soliciting Draco, he was getting revenge on Lucius's failure and imprisonment. Not only did Draco's calling cause calamity in the home and unsettlement among Death Eaters, it emblazoned more and more adolescents to the Dark Lord's cause, strengthening his army.
In essence, the Dark Lord had thought out every aspect of gain by courting Draco to be a Death Eater - not that Draco would expect any different. However, he wasn't too thrilled about becoming a pawn and nor would he succumb to that role. Draco had too much ambition to merely play a minor part in this revolution and nor would he.
"I suppose it won't matter," Draco finally decided, taking a bite of his apple in an air of finality. "This is all to gain my mark, and after that I can work alone." And bring honor where my father failed.
Blaise's face creased. "I don't understand why you want the mark so desperately, Draco. Personally," his voice lowered, "I don't think that the Dark Lord isn't going to last as long as he previously did."
Draco's eyes slit in scandal, but he commented not.
"My mother... she knows things about the Dark Lord that very few know. He's not at his supreme power - he's missing something." Blaise frowned. "Not that he would expound on the matter with his lowly concubine, and not that she would elaborate to her son. On the other hand, there are more poised to fight against him, especially Potter."
Draco balked at that, nearly choking on his bite of the apple. "You're kidding me right?"
"Just because you hate him, doesn't mean Potter is rubbish at everything," Blaise said as if he was simply remarking upon the weather and not Potter's competency.
"Yea, actually, it does."
The darker boy rolled his eyes impatiently. "Your opinion doesn't matter. Potter isn't that bad at dueling. And plus, you must have heard about the prophecy."
Again, Draco nearly choked, this time on laughter. "That Prophet nonsense? 'The Great Harry Potter has been prophesied to defeat You-Know-Who! See page eleven!'" he added in a falsetto. "Complete bullshit. It's just Scrimgeour's failing attempt to give hope to the ministry, just as it was Fudge's attempt when he forced the bloody paper to write all those stories about Potter being a bit touched in the head. Personally, I preferred Fudge's quite humorous denial of everything; it gave such a spark of comic relief."
Blaise shrugged. "Then explain the huge blowout at the Ministry few months back at the Department of Mysteries. Allegedly there are an abundance of prophecies hidden in there…."
Draco snorted. "You should learn to stop listening to the rumors your mother manages to hear whilst pleasing the population."
Blaise's slanted eyes narrowed, then frowned and shrugged. After sixteen years of life, he must have accepted his mother's promiscuity. "I suppose. We should return to Pansy; she must have bored herself silly, sitting there alone without an ear to talk to."
"Ask me if I care," Draco said cheerily, opening the door that led them out of the eternally Imperturbable room. Although he tried hard not to gloat, he was glad that he cut down Blaise and his luring argument for rebellion. "She must've found something to entertain herself."
"That's what I'm truly afraid of," Blaise sighed. "I'd rather not walk in on what kept her busy."
The two boys wove through the intricate halls of Malfoy Manor expertly, their eyes so used to the dazzling white floors and the glittering silver ceiling-hangings, that they didn't bat an eyelash. The bright examples of glamour were something to be expected from Malfoys; they wore their riches on their sleeves, quite literally. The Malfoys were one of the few pure blood families that weren't raving and had their prestige, something to be quite proud of.
Out of the corner of Draco's well-trained eye, he noticed the flicker of white-blonde hair disappearing beyond the garden entrance. He frowned. Narcissa had been absent for a number of days, and if she returned without an announcement, there was reason for a start.
"I think I just sighted my mum," Draco said, meeting Blaise's eyes. "You know the way back, right?"
Blaise gave him a secretive smile. "Of course. Give Narcissa my best. I haven't seen her in a while." He gave Draco a chaste kiss behind his ear before striding down the hall, disappearing beyond a shimmer of dragon's tooth beads to the staircase.
Draco hesitated, slightly agitated at Blaise's casualness. Deciding that he could wait to scold him later, Draco turned his attention to more pressing matters – his mother. Tossing the apple core on the ground – Pippy would get it soon enough – Draco pursued his mother.
The grand door to the garden was left slightly ajar – Narcissa must have known her Draco would follow. She was sitting quietly on a bench underneath the farthest apple tree, her hair a tone likened to the pavement's crystalline color under the sun.
The garden was Narcissa's solace. It was the only part of Malfoy Mansion that was completely hers. She created it around the time Draco was borne, which explained why his earliest memories were filled with sun and chirping crickets.
Draco followed the S-bend of the stream through the exhibits of boldly-colored flowers, ignoring the puckering lips of koi fish looking for breadcrumbs. "Mother," he greeted quietly, brushing away apples from the white bench so he had a place to sit beside her.
"Draco…I knew you'd eventually come," she said with a wry smile. "You always come…." Her electric blue eyes were dull, and she had forgotten to take her hair-color potion, because her roots were the same deep black of her sister's. She looked haggered as she usually did as of late.
"May I ask to why you needed me?" Draco insisted, lowering his voice to a comforting tone.
"You're a good boy, you know that?" She spoke as if never hearing Draco. "You're always there for your dear mum. And although Lucius treated you with nothing with cold indifference, I saw your eyes tear when we watched his trial. You're not as cold-hearted as you think you are, Draco. Neither are you as tough. You've led a privileged life with minor, recent discrepancies." Draco immediately opened his mouth to disagree, however he knew better to interrupt his mother.
"You've followed too many of your father's footsteps in order to appease him, love, before I thought I could stop you. Now I see that I can. I ask you to stay out of this war, Draco."
Draco bristled immediately, his mouths forming the words he so desperately didn't want to say. "I can't."
Narcissa didn't seem shocked. She just gave a sad, tired smile. "I understand. You've honor to uphold. You've vengeance you must get for your father. You've a name to make for yourself. I only remind you, Draco, that there is so far you can climb with your ambitions before you fall."
"I know, mother," Draco said mechanically. He waited for the next inquiry, trying to steel himself.
"Is Blaise staying the night?" she inquired coolly.
The preparation failed. As Draco shrugged non-committingly, his cheeks still flushed slightly. He couldn't hide his shame. "I don't know, mother."
"Then I shall see you at dinner."
Draco knew it was a dismissal and immediately left the garden, trying hard not to feel wretched back to his room.
It wasn't the first time Narcissa tried to sway Draco's decision, nor would it be the last. Her earlier arguments tried to appeal to Draco's more selfish nature; she told him of the dangers and warned him that the war was only temporarily swaying in the Dark Lord's favor. She told him that he wasn't thinking far enough ahead.
Narcissa never said what she meant, however. Reading through the lines, Draco understood that she wanted him to join the Order – to fight for "good". But what she didn't understand was how the "good" side was with the Dark Lord. Draco thought ahead enough to grasp that. He might be young but he wasn't stupid. With his life considered, Draco looked at each individual aspect.
If he joined the Order, his life expectancy rate would lower. If by some great gift of Merlin that they won this war, the Order would turn on Draco for Lucius's crimes. Narcissa would end up in Azkaban for now until eternity because of her love and vehemence for Draco's soul. Friends would stuff their noses in the air – they'd be blood traitors for now until forever. The prestige, the money, the bit of respect that the Malfoys have would be completely ruined.
The Dark Lord, however, could grant power to Draco that the boy could only dream of if he played his cards right. He wouldn't look down on Narcissa or Lucius for doing His work, of course. As long as Draco's parents lay low, they would be safe from the possibility of failure and retribution of the Dark Lord. Draco could become legendary, could finally make something for himself outside of the Malfoy name that practically guaranteed him the sun and the moon.
Besides, how could Draco possibly deny You-Know-Who?
"Draco!" Pansy squealed, throwing herself on him the moment he walked through the doorway. "Blaise was just telling me about how you both may go to London for dinner soon and I am thrilled to be invited."
"I hope you don't mind," Blaise said apologetically. He patted the empty space between his thigh and the large arm chair he was sitting in. His face didn't change from that indifferent, hazy smile when Draco allowed Pansy to pull him to the chaise.
"I don't. The more the merrier," Draco said, immediately tossing Narcissa from his mind. He wasn't going to show his indecision, his hurt, or person strain affront of Pansy, and most definitely not in front of Blaise. He had seen more than enough of Draco's vulnerability for the blond Slytherin to like.
"I just knew he wouldn't mind," Pansy said, combing out Draco's hair with her fingers. "I'll have to buy new robes however - mine are disasterously behind in fashion. You'll love the new style, Dray. For autumn, Madam Rozalija predicted dark, gem colors, like emerald in silks. However, maybe garnet would look good with your pale skin – it'd definitely be dramatic. And it certainly would look a lot better than this consistent black you've been wearing. Ugh, it does nothing for you but wash your skin out. Why do you have to be so blasted pale, with those pale eyes and hair to match?"
Draco tuned out Pansy's voice very easily; he'd done it for so many years that it became second nature whenever she began on her tangents. Blaise's response wasn't interesting enough to bother Draco enough to care, but the way he looked at Draco caught the blond's attention. He was furrowing his brows sexily, his lips curved around his cigarette erotically. He snubbed the butt into the ash tray and then gave a smoky sigh.
"You'd be interested to know, Dray, that while you two were alone," Pansy lips twisted, "the house elf Poppin or whatever told me that tonight's dinner is filet mignon."
"Brilliant," Draco said, dragging his eyes from Blaise's face before the Italian caught him.
"I would've expected a more animated response, Draco. What's wrong?"
The way he said "Draco" still pertained some of Blaise's muted Italian accent; the named rolled off of his tongue smoothly, like butter, with a slight, sexual roll of the R. It churned in Draco's stomach, filling his blood. Yet his lips twisted into a grimace. "I've a lot on my mind, alright? Bad enough you come over my house and steal my food, now you have to interrupt my moods. Worst kind, you two."
Pansy frowned. She embraced his neck enough to choke him. "I'm sorry, Dray darling"
"Worst kind?" Blaise inquired, taking another cigarette from the package in his pocket. He lit up immediately. "I'm sure no one else could stand you, besides Crabbe and Goyle. Between them they share a peanut sized brain."
"Makes me wonder how they got into Slytherin in the first place," Pansy said as she usually did when Crabbe or Goyle came up in conversation. "Should've been Hufflepuffs for sure."
"Everyone Slytherin needs a minion," Draco supplied to Pansy's unanswered question. Blaise smirked slightly.
"So…," Pansy began through the silence. She leaned towards Draco so her lips rested on his ear. "Am I going to find out what the secret is this time, or do I have to walk in on it?" There was a certain venom and vindictiveness in her voice that made Draco want to push her away. Was she waiting for the time when Draco would turn back into her arms?
Draco twitched at the idea, the memories that boiled to the surface. "It's business, Pansy."
She didn't seem impressed, but sat back. Her eyes flickered between the two boys, her lips twisting more deeply into a frown. "I'll eventually find out. You both can't keep secrets long enough to save your life. Remember how you tried to keep your relationship from me?" Her voice was growing a tad hysterical, or perhaps it was Draco's imagination. "Maybe you shouldn't knock the bed so loud next time, and I'll never know!"
"Shut it," Blaise said, still maintaining his casualness, but there was a power in his voice that immediately quieted Pansy. Draco was envious of that indifference, so much that it infuriated him. No matter what Blaise spoke about, or what the situation was, he always could remain emotionally unattached, something Draco strived to do with no avail.
However, Draco couldn't have Blaise without his nonchalant mannerisms and Draco had needed Blaise around a lot more frequently. Being the only competent friend in Draco's circle (Pansy wavered along that line), Blaise was called on for advice more often than the darker boy actually had time for. They were near inseparable since Lucius's imprisonment, something that hadn't occurred since their birth.
Blaise had offered Draco comforts that no other had offered – a tabooed sort of sympathy that often left Draco's mind blank. Blaise would do exactly as Draco asked, touching the blond in places until Draco had enough. He would beg wantonly for Draco, showing flashes of emotion that never extended beyond the bedroom. Blaise gave Draco a feeling of dominance when the blond felt he was losing all control. Their beneficial friendship wasn't for anything other than pleasure, comfort and power.
Yet, it was the after that gave Draco the most satisfaction. Blaise, spent and tired, would collapse besides Draco, alighting his chest against the blond's back, slinging his leg over the fairer boy's hip, and his arms around Draco's neck like a cloak. And Draco was too tired and too content basking in the afterglow of their climax that he didn't push Blaise away. It was Blaise curled around him that kept the dreams and the worries and the panic at bay. It was Blaise that was keeping Draco together, gluing him back together repeatedly. Besides Blaise, who did he really have?