Dear Father,
Professor Dumbledore has instructed me to write to you and inform you of my safety, as doubtless you have been frantic. I understand that vital matters such as Death Eater meetings and cocktail parties kept you too busy to search for me. As your son and a good Malfoy, I would never question your actions in this or any matter.
I was under a spell, but am now liberated and in hot pursuit of the culprit. Terrible tortures were inflicted upon me, but I bore them like a Malfoy. If you knew exactly what I have done, I feel you would be truly amazed.
Give my regards to the Dark Lord, and also mother.
Your son,
Draco Malfoy
p.s. Whole school abuzz with the news of my sordid affair with Ron Weasley. Have a nice day.
Draco sat back and admired his letter. He thought it got his message across beautifully.
Of course, there was always a “Screw you, Dad!” Howler. But Draco felt that lacked subtlety.
Draco felt it made amends for his morning. He had been shaken out of sleep at six and dragged, kicking and screaming and making innumerable muttered comments about sexual deprivation causing moodiness, to Dumbledore’s office.
An extremely put out Professor McGonagall had left them alone after that.
Dumbledore had fixed his eyes on Draco, and asked quietly,
“Have you an explanation for your prolonged absence?”
Draco was silent for a few moments, horribly torn between several alternatives. One side of him was clamouring to tell Dumbledore that he had been kidnapped, tied up and forced to be someone’s sex slave. Another part brightly suggested that he should claim to have been attending his Death Eater initiation, and receiving a Dark Mark in an unmentionable place.
Quite a bit of him wanted to claim he had been saving the world Harry Potter style because he felt it was his duty to preserve innocents, and see the old man die of heart failure.
Eventually, he did something which would shame the Malfoy name forevermore.
He told the absolute truth.
“I was a rat,” he confessed.
The look on Dumbledore’s face was something Draco would treasure for some time.
And the Gryffindors thought this man was infallible… even though he had a positive mania for abandoning his students at times of dire peril and bringing the powers of darkness onto the Hogwarts staff…
Draco explained, at length, in detail, and with various illustrative gestures.
No, he had no idea who had done this to him. No, he had no idea how the Polyjuice Potion had been changed in order to have this effect on him. No, he really couldn’t explain the dancing.
Yes, he did insist on employing this offensive tone.
Draco had no idea why he was telling the headmaster all these things. He had always disliked the man—and insofar as Dumbledore had noted his existence, he had disliked Draco. But… he had no-one else to tell.
It was some comfort to him that his authentically Malfoy manner kept Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed throughout the interview.
At its conclusion, he said, “I assume, Mr Malfoy, that you blame the Gryffindors? Perhaps Mr Weasley tampered with the Potion?”
Draco’s blond head snapped up.
“He bloody well did not!”
“Oh?”
“None of them had anything to do with it!”
“Is that so?”
Draco’s eyes met Dumbledore’s. The old man’s eyes were very, very wide and innocent.
Draco had the sudden horrible suspicion that he had been tricked.
He let his lip curl.
“Do you really think Weasley would be intelligent enough to tamper with a potion?” he inquired.
Dumbledore got up and smiled beatifically.
“Mr Malfoy, it has been a pleasure talking to you. If you ever feel like you need to talk to me again, please feel free. Can I say that you remind me of a student I had once?”
“Oh, touching bonding type moment,” Draco drawled. “Could it possibly be the reformed Death Eater Professor Snape? Goodness, what an honour. I see the error of my ways. Will you be my new father figure?”
He paused and scowled.
“And my personal hygiene is impeccable, thanks so much.”
“I was really thinking more of Mr Black,” said Dumbledore.
“Oh… what? I remind you of a mass murderer? You’re not supposed to say that to a student! That’s not motivational speaking. I see a bright future for you, Mr Malfoy—in Azkaban! This is so typical of you do-gooders. I play dirty at Quidditch and suddenly everyone’s screaming ‘Cheater, cheater, compulsive Death Eater!’ and I’m…”
… standing up, yelling at the headmaster and gesticulating wildly.
Way to get expelled.
“Er… I’m most terribly sorry, sir. This whole rat thing has been… a bit traumatic for me. Let’s, ah—just forget it about it, shall we? Ah—”
Draco let go of the front of Dumbledore’s robes.
Dumbledore offered him his hand.
“As I said—it’s been a pleasure, Mr Malfoy.”
Draco’s quick grovel had done nothing for his temper. He stared at the outstretched hand, and folded his arms deliberately across his chest.
He lifted cold grey eyes to Dumbledore’s face.
The man was still smiling!
Draco turned around and strode out of the door.
A moment later, the door opened again and a dishevelled blond head reappeared around it.
“And I’ve seen pictures of Black and his frankly appalling hair,” Draco added. “You complete bastard!”
When he heard Dumbledore laughed, he slammed the door with all his might.
Draco wished he could slam another door as he gave the letter to his eagle owl, Rover. (He had once heard, and rather fancied, the phrase “Kill Rover kill!”)
Which was when Crabbe and Goyle appeared in the common room.
Draco looked up, his smile brittle and bright as jagged glass.
“Boys,” he said. “Truly excellent to see you.”
Crabbe and Goyle were thick.
Nobody was quite thick enough to see a Malfoy in the kind of mood where they invented new torture implements without feeling a pressing need to be elsewhere.
Draco stood up, slung his arms around their necks and began pulling them in towards their dormitory.
Squeezing in a friendly, affectionate way which made them go blue and gurgle.
“Let’s get together, just us guys, and talk about cruelty to animals,” Draco urged with his sweetest and most charming smile, looking far too much like Satan’s choirboy.
He dragged them into the dormitory, and shut the door.
Kill Fluffy kill!
His smile was bright and shiny as a knife.
“Let’s chat.”
“Shhhh, Ron,” Hermione said soothingly. “I’m sure it was dreadful, but have a nice comforting piece of toast and forget about it. The bad man can’t get you now.”
Ron cautiously let his red head lift from his arms.
Draco Malfoy leaned in between Lavender and Parvati to reach the Gryffindor table.
Ron’s head slammed back down and connected with the table.
“You lied to me,” he informed Hermione in muffled and reproachful tones.
“Malfoy!” Hermione hissed in outrage. “Go away!”
He gave her an engaging and angelic smile.
“I’m just picking up my coffee.”
“Your… do you realise that Seamus Finnigan had to be sedated?” Hermione demanded.
Malfoy laughed, a bright carefree laugh which made Lavender and Parvati give a collective sigh.
“No, really?”
Hermione was used to Malfoy’s golden-pure looks, and she knew exactly how nasty this pretty boy could be. She simply sneered and looked away.
When Malfoy lifted coffee off the table, Ron launched himself out of his chair and seized him by the robes.
Malfoy stared at him with a mildly astonished and disdainful air.
“Do you mind?”
“Don’t you have something to say to me?” Ron snarled.
One pale eyebrow lifted. “Why, yes. When I told you I would respect you in the morning, I lied.”
Half the Gryffindor table choked.
Hermione grabbed Ron’s arm.
“Don’t kill him—”
“I’m so touched. I didn’t know you cared.”
“You’ll get expelled,” Hermione continued stonily.
“I want an explanation,” Ron snapped. “Surely you came over here for something—”
Malfoy shrugged easily out of Ron’s grip.
“Just this,” he said, gesturing with the coffee and—oh, purely accidentally—spilling a few strategic and scalding drops. He patted Ron’s face with a terribly patronising air. “And to say good morning, beautiful.”
Hermione hung on to Ron’s arm with all her might.
Malfoy turned away still laughing.
Harry and Ginny were coming in the doors of the hall, and they came face to face.
Harry’s eyes flashed and he stood firm, the hero determined to combat darkness.
Malfoy’s eyes danced with sparkling mischievous light.
“Oh, it’s the lovebirds,” he cooed. “Tell me, Harry, have you started composing Valentines yet? How about ‘Her eyes are as brown as a not so fresh pickled toad’?”
Ginny and Harry went a lovely matching shade of scarlet.
Hang on, thought Hermione, since when does Malfoy call Harry by his name?
Malfoy wandered blithely over to his own table, where he was given a hero’s welcome.
The prince of Slytherin had returned.
There was just something… bothering Hermione. He was still Malfoy, still an annoying, smart-mouthed brat who swaggered around thinking he owned the world. He was still an irritating bastard with a tongue like a machete.
There was—just something missing.
Like… malice.
Malfoy laughed at something over at his table, and she recognised the simple amusement which had caused his laugh before.
It was almost as if he was playing a game now.
The question was, what kind of game?
A cool grey gaze met hers. Very deliberately, Malfoy winked.
Irritating bastard.
Dumbledore stood up at dinner that night and announced what had happened to Draco Malfoy.
“Mr Malfoy,” he said, “was placed under a spell. It was an outrageous act and an attempt to wipe out an innocent child.”
All eyes turned to the innocent child, who at the present time had an arm around both Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, and who was smiling as if he’d just discovered Original Sin and was having great fun with it.
Hermione felt sure this was intentional.
“It was the unjustifiable act of a Dark Wizard,” Dumbledore continued, “and it must be paid for. I will not have attacks in my school. I will not bear the absolute violence which threatens the existence of another person. Anyone with information on this subject must come forward, or share guilt for something unforgivable.”
He smiled then, when they were all solemn, and produced a piece of paper from his voluminous robes.
“Mr Malfoy has requested that I read out this—er—statement of his feelings. It is addressed to his attacker, and begins—
“‘Oh, you are going to be sorry you were ever born. I’m going to wrap your intestine around a tree until it snaps like twine. I’m going to remove your manhood and serve it to you roasted with barbecue sauce. I’m going to rip you apart atom by atom and record the sounds of your screams to play to your parents, and finally I am going to get Blaise Zabini to spread dirty rumours about you. I have no mercy, and you will not escape. Soil yourself now and save time. Thanks for listening.’”
Hermione looked up and saw horror and amusement.
There was a curiously unignorable quality about Draco Malfoy. She should know, Harry had been trying to ignore him for years. He refused to be a background, a bit player.
By now, everyone in Hogwarts knew him, and first year students invariably asked who he was. There was always a reply, and never just a name—whether it was “That’s Draco Malfoy, a complete git” or “That’s Draco Malfoy. Isn’t he gorgeous?”
In a way, both answers were tributes paid to an unusual character.
Hermione found him unusually annoying, but now she realised that there was nobody indifferent to him in the room, whereas he was indifferent to so many of them.
Of course, she thought, Hitler had also been an arresting and noticeable personality.
It didn’t make Malfoy any less black-hearted.
“Mr Malfoy,” added Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling as they always did, as if he knew a secret others didn’t, “also asked me to thank the Gryffindors, who treated him with great kindness while he was among them.”
The Gryffindor table erupted into chaos.
Harry and Ginny were asking each other loudly what the meaning of this could be. Dean was restraining Ron from leaping over to the Slytherin table intent on murder. Lavender and Parvati were giggling helplessly. Neville had dived under the table, apparently convinced this was the harbinger of some fiendish Malfoy plot.
Hermione stood up, silently, among the hysterical people to look over at the Slytherin table.
Everyone there was screaming but Malfoy.
He sat perfectly calm, his head tilted back to face the world and his arms folded across his chest, gazing out at the world with absolute assurance and a faint smirk.
And, very gradually, everybody in the Hall went quiet and stared at him.
Malfoy got up and made a sweeping bow.
His eyes raked over the astounded faces and he looked as if he rather badly wanted to laugh, but instead he simply gave that traditional Malfoy smirk and left.
This was going to take some thinking out.
Dumbledore’s speech caused such a sensation among the Gryffindors that Hermione was glad when Arithmancy rolled around the next day.
Arithmancy was the only subject she did not share with other Gryffindors, and if she heard one more variation on the theme of “I-hate-that-sod-Malfoy” she was going to scream.
Of course, Malfoy was in Arithmancy too, but he always took the seat furthest from her and a sea of Ravenclaws separated them, and usually stopped all but the most serious bickering matches.
Hermione was expecting some relief.
She did not expect to go into the room and find Draco Malfoy casually seated at her double desk, occupying space she used for her notes, bright head bent over an Arithmancy book as if he had every right to be there when everyone knew this was her place!
He looked up with a flashing smile as she entered.
“Hi,” he said. “I thought you could use some company.”
“I’m not stupid, Malfoy,” Hermione said levelly, putting her books down on the desk. “Tell me what you’re really doing here, then get lost.”
Malfoy glanced up at her. His grey eyes were almost exactly like mirrors, opaque and silvery, giving her back simply a lovelier version of herself.
Shards of the Mirror of Erised, if all you cared for was beauty.
“I’m trying to get your attention,” he answered serenely.
Hermione stood and gaped, and then Professor Vector came in and she quickly slipped into her seat.
Only after she had done this did she realise that she was now sitting next to Malfoy.
Bloody, bloody hell.
“You have my attention,” she hissed. “You always have everyone’s attention, don’t you? You had my attention when I slapped your face in third year—is that what you want?”
“Heavens, Granger, you kinky thing you,” Malfoy murmured.
Hermione tried not to disrupt the class by having an epileptic fit.
She fought to keep her voice low and level.
“Malfoy. What is it that you want?”
“Oh, you know. A really masculine aftershave. An empire to rule. A harem full of nubile Eastern maidens.” He paused. Smirked. “Oh, and world peace.”
“Be serious!”
“Ms Granger, be quiet,” Professor Vector said sharply. “You and Mr Malfoy can have a cosy little talk after my lesson.”
Hermione went scarlet. Malfoy opened his book with his most beatific expression.
And that, to Hermione’s outrage, was that. Malfoy made no further attempts to annoy her, or talk to her—which of course was the same thing. To all appearances, he was completely absorbed in his Arithmancy.
And he was too shiny.
He distracted you, like something flashing in the landscape. She tried to focus on her Summoning Sums and his too-pale and frankly not all that handsome face would screw up in concentration, and suddenly the sum became gibberish.
The only thing he seemed to notice was the lock of gleaming pale hair which kept falling into his face. He pushed it back every time it did so, a quick motion of ever-increasing irritation.
At the end of the most unproductive Arithmancy lesson ever, he got up and then had to shove back the lock for about the fifteen millionth time.
He rolled his eyes.
“I’m getting this cut. It’s quite ridiculous.”
“Oh, and I suppose you’re going to start gelling it again? That was ridiculous, if you like,” Hermione snapped. “It looks much better this way.”
She could have bitten her tongue out.
Malfoy raised his eyebrows.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Granger. And I am flattered.”
He smirked, again, and she felt an amazing urge to hit him.
He sauntered off.
She was going to find some Gryffindors, and have a proper conversation with them.
She hated that sod Malfoy.
Draco had once heard that in one person was a constant struggle between his Good self and his Evil self.
Draco had considered this proposition at all angles, and had decided it was all a matter of degrees. For instance, Harry Potter’s conflicting selves were probably GoodHarry and NaughtyDesiresToOccasionallyTakeCookiesHarry.
Draco had named his EvilDraco and CompleteBastardDraco.
They usually got on fairly well, and ganged up on other people.
They were having a bit of a disagreement now. He supposed it was all that bad Gryffindor influence.
He had told EvilDraco not to play with unsuitable children.
He also missed airing his every thought aloud.
“Hello, Draco,” Pansy cooed as he strode through the common room.
“Go away, I find you unattractive.”
All right, all right, so he was hardly bottling it all up. But still.
Draco slammed into his dormitory bathroom and opened his own special cupboard. An avalanche of hair care products almost killed him.
Draco perched on the sink amid the bottles.
EvilDraco said, What kind of person owns more than his body weight in hair care products?
CompleteBastardDraco pointed out that it got results.
Yes, but…
Was it worth all that time? So his hair had a tiny, tiny tendency to wave at the ends. So what? Who really gave a damn?
It looks much better this way…
Draco Malfoy, you unutterable idiot, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing with that girl?
Draco looked turned and looked at the mirror.
“Hi there, handsome. I missed you,” it said.
Draco was tired of all this angst. Well, all this five minutes of angst. Slytherins worked out an evil plot and got on with it.
Mind you, Gryffindors just acted.
Not that that was the way he wanted to behave now, but…
There were certain moments when it might be just a tiny, tiny relief.
Draco weighed a bottle in his hand.
Then he began to throw them.
He hurled bottle after bottle into the courtyard not far below, threw with vicious emphasis and waited to hear the satisfying crack of bottle against stone.
He heard a yowl and Argus Filch’s anguished cry.
“Someone just hit my cat!”
Draco hit the floor.
Crabbe came in, and looked understandably confused. Draco gestured to the window.
Crabbe went over and peered out.
“You! It was you!” howled Filch. “I’m going to kill you!”
Crabbe looked bewildered and terrified.
Draco, chuckling wickedly, exited the bathroom propelled mainly by his elbows.
That inexplicable angsty stuff descended on him again once he was out and on his feet.
He walked into the common room.
Contrary to what the Gryffindors believed, Slytherins did not spend their free time ritually sacrificing small fluffy animals to the Dark Lord. Blaise, Pansy and Goyle were playing cards.
Okay, yes, it was strip poker. Nevertheless.
Slytherins, though Draco flattered himself he was an extra-special exception, were not the heart of pure evil. They were all fiercely loyal to each other. They knew that the other houses were all arrayed against them.
You heard the whispers. Dark Wizards. Better any house than Slytherin. Nasty bunch.
Right, someone created a house to create murderous fiends. The Sorting Hat must have simply forgotten to mention it.
Draco genuinely liked most of his housemates, and he could find a use for the ones he did not like. He had missed them all when he was in Gryffindor tower.
But…
It was damn cold in this dungeon.
The carved chairs were uncomfortable.
Draco stared into the fire.
Oh, well. At least I make a very handsome brooding hero.
Hermione looked around at the common room in consternation.
The Gryffindors were—there was no other word for it—drooping.
Harry and Ginny seemed to have dug themselves into an awkward conversational rut, and they were tripping over words and blushing. Seamus was still slightly dazed, and rocked back and forth a bit too much for comfort.
Dean Thomas had his guitar out, and was looking over music he had planned to play at Fluffy’s next public appearance. He seemed too desolate to play a note.
Parvati and Lavender were trying to console themselves, it appeared, with empty milk cartons.
Neville had made a cup of coffee and was now staring at it in blank confusion because he hated coffee.
It had to be the weather, Hermione thought. It was chill and foggy outside, and that must be dampening everyone’s spirits. That must be why the common room seemed so… so flat, and lacking in… sparkle.
Ron had his head in his arms.
“Maybe you should go to bed,” Hermione suggested delicately.
“No!” Ron’s face was hunted. “I’m never going to bed again! The bed is evil, the bed has been defiled, the bed must be burned!”
“Um… okay.”
She rested a tentative hand on Ron’s shoulder.
“And I can’t do this Potions homework!” Ron wailed. “Why is it suddenly so hard?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“And why is everything so boring?” Ron demanded belligerently. “What’s the matter with everyone?”
Ron was simply far too transparent. He made you see his feelings, when you could even conceal your own from yourself.
“Ron, nobody knew,” Hermione soothed him. “It’s okay to miss—”
“Miss him?” Ron yelled, reacting far more than he would have if he hadn’t believed it. “Miss that evil prat? Miss that, that, snake in rat’s clothing? I don’t miss him, I—”
The silence behind Ron’s voice seemed to intensify, to thicken, as if everyone was staring in astonishment at a point behind him and desperate to see what happened next.
This was, in fact, the case.
“You people really should change your password more often,” drawled Draco Malfoy. “Any evil prat could just walk in.”