Not exactly life as he knew it

Disclaimer: Me no owney.

Summary: It’s easy to fall in love. It’s when you include everything else that you end up with problems.

A/N: Right, this is a prequel to Five Year’s Worth of Interest but you really DON’T have to have read it because this basically starts with a blank state. Hell, if you’ve not read I’d almost say just read this first. Oh, and folks this is going to be Draco-centric with very little Ginny POV mainly because I tried to write the second half of this chapter Ginny and it just wasn’t happening and that is why the first half has been done for like a week and the second half was finished half an hour ago. Also, this is going to be long. I have the basic outline and there’s a lot of stuff to get into it and it might take me a little longer to get each chapter out, we’ll see. Anyway, read on and remember reviews make the world go round.

It was strange, really, how it all started. Because if there was anything that Draco Malfoy was, it was dramatic. Even his name was conducive to drama. But the most important thing that ever happened in his life, the thing that would be the catalyst for most of the major decisions he ever made again happened without any drama whatsoever. There was no fanfare, nobody died and certainly no-one was born. Because one day, without any drama, Draco Malfoy noticed that Virginia Weasley existed.

*

“You know if your ancestors had crawled out of the primordial ooze ten milliseconds later, ensuring that all the willing primates were taken, they really would have done the world a favour.”

Vincent Crabbe looked up from the tying of his shoelace and frowned at the tall, blonde boy stood imperiously over him. Draco shook his head, recognising Crabbe’s expression, it was the one he wore when he was particularly confused by long words, which as that happened quite often he wore a lot. Gregory Goyle, trying to work out which way round his robe went didn’t appear to have heard anything. This didn’t really surprise Draco who knew that Goyle tended to only hear things connected with food.

Draco blew out an exasperated breath. “Will you two please hurry up? I’m hungry.” Draco tapped his foot impatiently before rolling his eyes and storming out of the common room yelling over his shoulder, “I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” and muttering under his breath; “Ingrates.”

Striding down the dark hallways that led to the dungeons as though he owned them, Draco scowled fiercely into the darkness, almost as though he were preparing himself for the coming day in which much scowling and annoying of those below him would be required. As this type of day was perfectly normal for Draco he didn’t even realise he was making that particular facial expression.

Pushing open both the doors to the Great Hall, Draco paused and looked over the room, in much the same way as a King would survey his kingdom. His scowl deepened as he glimpsed Potter and his little friends, heads bent together, no doubt cooking up some new scheme that would be completely against the rules and yet would not result in them receiving any sort of punishment. The sight of Potter made Draco’s bad mood intensify and it was with much banging of plates and cutlery that he sat down in his normal seat at the Slytherin table.

“Draco, dear, are you all right?” Pansy Parkinson’s grating tones made Draco clench his jaw and ladle his porridge into his bowl much harder than was necessary. He looked up at the girl who was watching him with concern.

“I’m perfectly fine, Pansy,” he ground out, still throwing porridge into his bowl angrily, “Just hurry up and eat, won’t you? Then you can leave.” Pansy just frowned at him before returning to her breakfast.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Blaise Zabini observed as he slipped into the seat next to Draco. Draco glared at him. Blaise just raised an eyebrow and grabbed Draco’s wrist, stilling his porridge ladling motions. “I think you have enough porridge,” Blaise looked pointedly down at the bowl, “in fact I think you have enough porridge for all the third world countries on the planet.”

Draco slumped back in his chair, crossing his arms as though he’d just been scolded. “I got a letter from my mother.”

“Ah,” said Blaise knowingly, “that explains the gigantic black cloud hovering over your head.”

Pansy looked up from her food and frowned at Blaise. “You shouldn’t joke about that, you know. That actually happened to one of my cousins.” She shook her head as she took a sip of pumpkin juice. “The occasional lightening bolts made her hair go all frizzy. Dreadful. Oh, and she couldn’t remember the full alphabet for months afterward.” The two boys opposite her were staring at her with indefinable expressions. “What?”

Blaise shook his head. “Nothing Pans. It just amazes me how one minute you can go from simpering idiot, to blithering girl and then under the right circumstances to shrewd wench.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow in an uncanny impression of Draco. “Wench? Never refer to me as that ever again, Blaise Zabini.

“Is ‘slut’ okay?”

Pansy thought about it for a moment. “I suppose so. And my miraculous transformations are, as you know, all for my,” she waved her goblet around to encompass the hall, “audience, dear Blaise.”

A disgruntled grunt was heard from where Draco had slouched dangerously low in his chair. “You know I was sure this conversation had started out dealing with my problem.”

Blaise grinned down at him whilst Pansy rolled her eyes. “Ah, is little Draco feeling neglected.”

Draco pulled himself up, adopting a nonchalant attitude. “Fine, if you don’t want to know what my mother said…” Draco let the sentence tantalisingly.

“Draco just tell us what the letter said and stop with the dramatics, please,” Blaise implored, managing to sound annoyed at the same time.

“Well, no, if you don’t want to know I don’t see why…” Pansy threw a piece of her croissant at him, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Hey!”

She raised another piece threateningly. “Fine, fine. My mother said ‘Dear Draco, how are you. I am fine, not too sure about your father though…”

“Draco,” chorused Blaise and Pansy together.

“Fine. She gave me the usual spiel about getting my act together and stopping with the childish taunts.”

“As well you should,” Pansy said, causing Draco to glare at her.

“She also hinted at our marriage again, dear Pansy.”

Pansy frowned. “Don’t sound too thrilled, Draco. Least you get me on your honeymoon, I get stuck with…” she gestured weakly at Draco who just glared back.

Draco waved a hand disdainfully. “You know you want me, Parkinson.” Pansy opened her mouth to protest but Draco kept on talking, “Anyway she also hinted at developments.”

Both Blaise and Pansy leaned forward in their chairs, expectantly. “She wouldn’t say what exactly but…” Draco moved closer so that heads were bent together, for that moment he imagined that they must have looked much like the trio seated at the Gryfinndor table. “I definitely got the impression that we would be required soon.” He leaned back slowly, taking in his companions faces. Blaise was impassive though Draco, knowing him so well, could practically see the cogs turning in his head as he contemplated what the ramifications of the news could mean for him. Pansy had gone paler than she normally was, which was practically impossible.

She stood and gulped down the rest of her pumpkin juice, striding out of the hall without saying a word to the boys. They watched her walk into Goyle as he ambled in and for an instant Draco thought he was going to be witness to one of the infamous Parkinson temper tantrums. But then the moment passed and Pansy merely pushed at him ineffectually and continued stomping out.

Draco and Blaise shared a look and reaching an unspoken decision Blaise rose from the table and strode off after Pansy, hands casually pushed into his pockets. Crabbe and Goyle dropped into the seats that the others had just left, offering monosyllabic grunts as forms of greeting. Draco watched them distastefully for a moment as they piled heaps of food onto their plates and then proceeded to shovel it into the gaping caverns they referred to as mouths.

Turning away from the macabre sight that was his quasi-bodyguards eating, Draco let his gaze idly wander over the Great Hall. He smirked at some of the cuter Ravenclaws who caught his eye, blatantly ignored the Hufflepuffs and sneered cruelly as he noticed Potter.

Then he noticed something, or rather someone. A pretty red-haired girl was daintily eating a muffin whilst chatting animatedly to the boy next to her. Draco tried to shift his gaze from her but something about her made it impossible. He knew he was staring, he also knew he should stop. Because he was fairly positive that his object of observation was Ronald Weasley’s little sister. And it had taken Draco far too long to do his hair this morning for a little scuffle with Weasley to ruin it.

Whilst his rational part of his brain was telling him to stop staring, the not so rational part was reminding him how damn cute the littlest Weasley had gotten and how the hell had he never noticed her before? She laughed and Draco felt a familiar tug in his lower stomach. This was so wrong. She’s a Weasley, Draco’s inner voice sneered. But his body was betraying him, because the sight of her was making him have very bad thoughts that involved him throwing her across the Hufflepuff table and doing very bad things to her that he was pretty sure he would get into trouble for doing in public on top of a dish of black pudding. And he imagined the Hufflepuffs might be none to pleased.

Draco watched her take a sip of her juice and his eyes roamed over her lips, now glistening slightly from the stray drops. Her tongue darted out to lick them up and Draco nearly groaned. This was ridiculous. She must have sat there every day for years and yet he had never noticed her before. And Draco knew it was a very bad sign that he was thinking not how he wished he’d never noticed her but how he wished he’d noticed her a long time before.

Resigning himself to the fact that he was now harbouring a crush on Ronald Weasley’s little sister, Draco realised that he should probably try and remember her name. Jenny? No. Gertrude. God I hope not. Ginny? Yes. That was it. Little Ginny Weasley. This time Draco did groan out loud, causing Crabbe and Goyle to look up from their chewing long enough to grunt out some sort of question that Draco immediately ignored. He had a crush on Ginny Weasley. She was a Weasley. And not even one that used their full name, like civilised people. Draco resisted the urge to drop his head on the table amongst the cutlery and crockery and his overflowing bowl of porridge.

Instead he jumped out of his seat and hurried from the hall, causing Crabbe and Goyle to shove as much food as possible into their mouths and run after him.

And so it was that Draco Malfoy noticed Virginia Weasley.

*

When he got back to the common room, Draco found Blaise and Theodore Nott sat in the high-backed chairs near the fire engaged in a game of cards. Draco raised an eyebrow and collapsed in the other chair, absent-mindedly noticing that Crabbe and Goyle settled themselves on the sofa near them.

“Where’s Pansy?” Draco inquired, the other boys automatically dealing him into their next game. Draco held back a wince when he saw his cards but threw some chips in the pile anyway. “I’m in.”

“Me too,” Blaise shrugged as he tossed his chips, “Millicent’s dealing with her.”

“Is that wise?” asked Draco, his voice cool.

“Calm down, Draco.” Theodore said, “I raise you three. Pansy was crying. What were we supposed to do?”

“I’m out. She was crying?” Draco asked incredulously.

Blaise nodded, his eyes fixed on his cards. “Yeah, and as it was Pansy who was crying we were sort of at a loss.”

“I would imagine so.” Draco leaned back in his chair, watching the flickering flames of the fire. It was always cold in the dungeons and occasionally, Draco wished for the warmth he imagined existed in the other, above ground, common rooms.

The boys sat in a companionable silence for a while till footsteps on the staircase to the girl dormitory’s caught their attention. Draco glanced up along with the others and then away, appearing nonchalant.

Millicent came first and perched on the arm of the sofa, her hand resting on Goyle’s shoulder. “Hi,” she murmured.

The boys by the fire nodded a greeting, Blaise dealing a new hand of cards. They didn’t glance up when Pansy came and sat in the remaining chair, Blaise silently dealing her in.

Draco glanced at her, taking in the perfect hair and make-up. He shot a glance at Blaise who was watching Pansy in the same way.

Suddenly Pansy threw her cards on the table and glared at the boys. “I’m not going to kill you if you ask me if I’m okay, you know.”

Draco smiled a small grin. “We never really know with you, Pans. Sometimes you’re all smiley and nice and sometimes you nearly rip out our intestines and use them as curtains pulls on your bed. You’re a complicated person, Parkinson.” Pansy glared at him and sat back down, picking up her discarded cards.

“Well, I’m fine,” she said huffily, “and I’m also in.” She didn’t go to throw any chips on the table.

Theodore looked at her questioningly. “Erm, Pansy. You do understand the definition of the word ‘gambling’, don’t you?”

Draco, however, was carefully watching her. She turned her attention to him and was caught by the calculating look in his cool grey eyes. “Are you sure?”

Pansy threw a chip on the table. “As sure as I’ll ever be.”

Draco stared at her for a moment longer and then placed his cards on the table and walked away, saying; “Then let’s play.”

Draco continued staring at Ginny though he was constantly telling himself that he shouldn’t. He’d watch her as she ate her breakfast in the morning, watch her as she ran to classes, invariably late, watch her as she laughed with her oaf of a boyfriend, Dean Something-or-other.

He knew exactly what she liked to eat, knew that she always turned her nose up at tea in the morning and he knew that she always wore her hair pulled up into a messy bun on Tuesdays because, he assumed, she had herbology that day and she didn’t want it to get in the way. Draco knew all these little details about Ginny and it was making him sick.

If there was one thing that Draco had had drilled into him by his father; it was that he was supposed to have control. It didn’t matter if it was just over a stupid house-elf, the point was that you were supposed to be in control all the time. And so Draco hated his new found fascination with Ginny Weasley because he couldn’t do a damn thing to control it.

He couldn’t stop himself looking over at her in the morning to check she was still there and he couldn’t help himself imagining what her long red hair would feel like running through his fingers.

And it didn’t help that alongside his new fascination with the youngest Weasley there was always the distinct possibility that the elder Weasley, or even Potter, might bash his face in if they found out about the sordid little fantasies involving Ginny, chocolate spread and the Astronomy Tower he spent Arithmancy thinking up.

But Potter and Weasley weren’t Draco’s problem at the moment. Because stood in front of him, a scowl on her pink lips, stood Ginny Weasley.

“Well, if it isn’t the littlest Weasley,” Draco drawled, leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of him. He hoped to God that he didn’t look like he was trying to work out what she was wearing under her robes. And he also hoped to God that no-one saw them in the empty corridor. It would ruin both their reputations. Not that he cared about hers.

Ginny raised an eyebrow in a gesture worthy of a Slytherin. “I’m surprised you know my name, Malfoy.”

Draco copied her expression and snickered. “I didn’t say I knew your name. It’s perfectly obvious that you’re a Weasley. Though if you’re not then genetics really is playing a cruel game by handing out that hair colour to more than one disadvantaged family that have to dress their daughter in robes that look as though they were bought off the back of a magic carpet.”

Ginny coloured and Draco found that there was something else he now knew about her. She was even cuter when she angry. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

“Cutting,” smirked Draco.

Ginny went on as though he hadn’t spoken. She stood straight and stared defiantly into his eyes. “You’ve been staring at me.”

Draco controlled the urge to roll his eyes and say ‘took you long enough’ and instead concentrated on perfecting a completely composed mask. “Have I now?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Cut the crap, Malfoy. I’ve seen you.”

Draco laughed shortly causing Ginny’s eyes to widen a fraction in surprise. “And what if I have?” he asked, stepping away from the wall and into her personal space.

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him and stepped back. “Then I’d like you to stop.”

“Oh, don’t like the attention, do we?”

Ginny smirked. “So you are admitting that you stare at me, are you?”

Draco stepped away from her, his hands held up in front of him, a sneer on his lips. “Answering a question with a question. Wonderful interrogation techniques there, Weasley.”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Ginny turned to go. “Just stop whatever sick and twisted game you’re playing, Malfoy.”

“Game? Dear Ginny, I don’t play games.”

Ginny turned to smirk at him over her shoulder. “So you do know my name.”

Draco cursed under his breath as she walked away. He really didn’t like to lose control.

*

The copy of the Daily Prophet that was dropped into Draco’s bowl of cereal looked exactly the same as the one that had been delivered to the table every day for six years, albeit a bit more soggy. But this one had the Slytherins surrounding Draco suddenly sneaking surreptitious glances at the front page.

Draco gingerly lifted the paper from his breakfast, ignoring Pansy’s amused snickers. Muttering a quick drying charm, Draco scanned the headlines, mindful of Blaise’s curious gaze.

“Anything?” asked Theodore quietly, tapping his fork against the side of the table nervously.

Draco folded the paper up and threw it on the table, returning to his cereal. The others looked at him irritably till Theodore leaned over and poked Draco in the arm with his fork.

“Hey! Would you please refrain from poking me with your fat encrusted eating utensils?”

Theodore shrugged, “Sure. If you tell us if the paper says anything.”

“What? Have all of you lost the gift of literacy?”

Blaise rolled his eyes and retrieved the paper, shaking his head as he scanned the articles. “Nothing.” He threw the paper down harshly, knocking the serving dishes.

Draco snorted. “What did you expect? A twelve-page spread on the prisoners of Azkaban? Maybe a piece on their likes and dislikes and oh, yes their favourite foods in case anyone feels the urge to send some sustenance their way? Or perhaps a word or two on who was winning the inter-prison beauty contest?” Draco threw down his spoon, his appetite suddenly gone. “They’re in there. They’re forgotten. They don’t matter anymore.” Draco spat the words out harshly and he saw Millicent lay a consoling hand on Crabbe’s shoulder.

“Draco,” Blaise started, his voice as comforting as it was possible for his voice to be.

“No,” said Draco and the table stilled, the unmistakeable air of authority that permeated his voice clear to everyone. “My father is in there. Crabbe’s father is in there. Teddy’s father is in there. And they put themselves in there.”

Draco looked each of them in the eye as he leaned over and grabbed the newspaper. Draco slowly began to tear it up. “And news of them won’t be in here. Because they are in there doing nothing.” He swept his gaze over those who were listening. “Don’t you think it’s about time we stopped looking to see what was happening and actually made things happen?”

One by one they all nodded their heads and Draco felt a thrill of power. His hand instinctively went to his left forearm and he let a small, feral smile alight his features at the thought of what would be there. Then he heard a familiar laugh and his eyes latched onto the figure of Ginny giggling at something Oafish Dean was saying. His hand fell from his arm. Somehow Draco couldn’t imagine Ginny liking a Dark Mark.

*

“That was some speech.” Blaise dropped into line next to Draco as he strode along the empty hall, down to the potions classroom.

Draco shook his head. “Ridiculous propagandas.”

“God, yes,” Blaise agreed, laughing. “Though I particularly liked the segment of your performance where you ripped up the paper. That was pure entertainment.”

Draco grinned at him. “That was pretty good, wasn’t it?” Draco cocked his head, considering. “It might have more of an impact if I’d set it on fire though.” Draco sighed dramatically. “Though there are those pesky rules about fire hazards. They really are ridiculous.”

“Remind me to take away your wand when you’re in one of your arson-inducing moods.”

“I’d use matches if I really wanted to set something on fire.”

“You don’t have any matches.”

“Fine then, a magnifying glass.”

“Draco.”

“Maybe two sticks.”

“Draco.”

“Perhaps just sheer force of will.”

“Aren’t those Muggle methods? Apart from the last one which is plainly just one of your insane ideas.”

“Yeah, they’re all Muggle.” The pair had reached the potions classroom and Draco pushed the door open, revealing an empty room with Severus Snape sat at the desk.

“Then how do you know them?” Blaise asked from behind him.

“Hello, Professor,” Draco said cheerfully before answering in an undertone to Blaise; “Father taught me. Something about being able to torture people to severe, dehabilitating pain under any conditions with any tools you have handy. I wasn’t really listening, it was all pretty boring after the initial torture talk.”

“Torture, Mr. Malfoy?” Snape said smoothly, standing to walk towards the two boys.

Draco grinned, perching himself on a desk. “Yup, of small, defenceless animals. Me and Blaise are going to go round some up after this and throw them off the North Tower for fun.”

Snape sighed. “Draco.”

“Don’t worry, Professor. I’ll keep Draco in line,” Blaise said, jumping up onto the table next to Draco. “We’ll only take those animals that look like they might be some sort of endangered species.”

“Thank you so much, Blaise,” Snape replied dryly, crossing his arms. “Though I do love this stimulating conversation I have an actual life to lead, you know.”

Blaise looked around the dark room with raised eyebrows. “Really?”

Draco elbowed him and said in an exaggerated whisper; “Shh, Blaise, obviously he’s going down to Hogsmeade later and is going to dance the night away to some hideous old music in the special room at the back of the Three Broomsticks.”

“Boys,” Snape’s voice this time held a distinct warning tone that they recognised as him quickly reaching the end of his tether.

Draco instantly sobered, leaning forward and fixing his potions professor with a serious stare. “We wanted to know if there was any news.”

Snape faltered for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for both Draco and Blaise to catch it, both having been trained since birth to read others. “What makes you think I know anything?”

Draco stood, ignoring Blaise’s warning hand on his arm. “Because you speak to him.”

Snape stared at Draco, both their faces impassive. “I know as much as your mother, Draco.”

Draco tried to hold the gaze but Snape broke it, turning his back on the teenager and walking to his desk. “Don’t you have small, furry creatures to ensnare and torture, Mr Malfoy?”

Blaise looked between the pair uneasily, the tension palpable. Draco stared at Snape’s back, his gaze calculating. Suddenly a grin broke out on his face and he laughed.

“You’re right. Come along Blaise, those traps won’t set themselves.” Blaise stared at him disbelievingly until he caught sight of Draco’s eyes. A toss of Draco’s head indicated he wanted out of the cramped classroom and Blaise readily agreed.

“Sure. But I’m not doing all the hard work. Setting traps is so tedious. Can’t we just use you as bait, Draco?.” The pair walked towards the door, keeping up the banter, carefully ignoring the still, silent potions master.

“Bait? A Malfoy as bait? Did you swallow some suspicious looking substance while we were in there because there is no way that…”

“Draco.” The voice stilled him. Blaise looked at him questioningly and Draco signalled him to keep going.

“See you tomorrow, Professor.” There was no reply and Blaise left the room, nodding to Draco that he would wait outside.

Snape slowly turned so that he was leaning on the desk and he waited patiently for Draco to slowly turn and meet his gaze. “What are you planning, Draco?”

Draco didn’t need to fake surprise. “Planning? Nothing.”

Snape looked at him, wearily. “Then what was your little performance at the table earlier about?”

Draco grinned and threw his arms in the air. “I’m a showman. I like an audience.”

“And you usually have one,” he looked at him searchingly, “You don’t have some foolish plan brewing in that manipulative little mind of yours?”

“No.”

“Why do I think you’re lying, Draco?”

Draco’s anger seeped into his voice. “You must just be a distrusting person. I’m not lying.”

“You’re not at Malfoy Manor, Draco. Please treat me with some respect.”

Draco groaned in annoyance and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Professor but you accused me of lying when, for once in my life, I really am not.”

“So, no plan?” he still sounded incredulous.

“No. Plan.” Draco said slowly. “Though action needs to be taken. And many of us are willing to take it.”

Snape held back the yell of protest that arose in him upon hearing Draco’s words. “All in good time, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco sighed at the familiar words. “I just want to do something.”

He turned to go, pausing in the doorframe when Snape spoke in an oddly sad voice; “You’re so like your father, Draco.”

Draco regarded him over his shoulder, completely seriously. “Thank you.”

*

The ground of Hogwarts were bitterly cold as Draco and Blaise trudged over the frozen ground.

“I’m cold,” Draco observed blithely.

“Well, yes. That would be because you dragged us out here without any cloaks or heat inducing apparatus and you still haven’t exactly told me why.” Blaise pointed out, his breath appearing in little puffs of white steam.

“Right. Forgot that.” Draco abruptly stopped and regarded the lake detachedly causing Blaise to meander on without him for a few moments and then jog back, cursing.

“Draco, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Draco took a moment to imagine what Blaise’s expression would be if he said Well, my father’s in Azkaban and I’m actually sorta happy about that, I want to be a Death Eater but no-one will damn well let me, I have a crush on Ginny Weasley and my mother bought me this hideous jacket for my birthday that she’s going to expect me to wear at Christmas.

Laughing slightly, Draco actually said; “Something’s wrong with Professor Snape.”

“I don’t see how bad it could be, he’s not stood out hearing freezing so badly that he might never have children or even engage in any sexual experiences ever again.”

“Didn’t you see him flinch when we asked for news?”

Blaise shrugged. “Yeah, but I don’t see what it could mean.”

Draco continued to look over the lake, not really seeing it. “Neither do I, but there’s something.” He turned decisively to Blaise and pinned him with steely grey eyes. “I’m going to write to my mother and ask her to discuss my position with the people who matter.”

Blaise stilled. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

“When they sorted you into Slytherin did they forget to mention the bit about ambition?”

“Obviously, you got my share,” Blaise said dryly, “Look Draco I just don’t know if now’s the right time what with your father…”

His objection was cut off by a squeal of laughter, causing both boys to spin towards the source of the sound.

The sight that met them had Draco cursing silently. Ginny and Oafish Dean were giggling as they walked along, Dean occasionally tickling Ginny, causing the squeals in laughter.

Blaise regarded them coolly. “Isn’t that Weasley’s little sister and that guy in our year?”

“Yeah,” Draco agreed grudgingly, “Oafish Dean.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Oafish Dean?”

“Erm,” spluttered Draco, “I’m thinking that all the Gryfinndors need nicknames. You know, Plonker Potter, Whimpering Weasley and erm, Giggling Granger?”

“Giggling Granger? You’ll have her sobbing in the hallways with that one, Draco.”

“Shut up,” retorted Draco, without venom, “Alliteration isn’t my thing.”

“Oafish Dean isn’t alliteration.”

Draco was saved from having to defend themselves by the pair drawing level with them. Dean’s arm wrapped protectively around Ginny’s shoulder as he glared at them. Ginny, meanwhile, just watched Draco with an expression he couldn’t quite place in her eyes.

Blaise opened his mouth to say something cutting when Draco cut him off; “Come on, Blaise, let’s head back.”

Blaise stared at him in surprise, not noticing the same expression on Dean’s face. Blaise shot them a venomous look and hurried after Draco who was already striding up the path, mindful of Ginny’s curious gaze on his back.

Draco was preoccupied. Anyone who had known him for any substantial amount of time could tell this. This meant that anyone who had known him for any substantial amount of time and saw him in this mood would have known to avoid him. Ginny Weasley, unfortunately, hadn’t known Draco for any substantial amount of time and so did not know this important nugget of information about his personality.

Emerging from her transfiguration lesson Ginny’s bag had fallen open with a shrieking split causing all her books and quills to fall on the floor in a heap. Sighing irritably she waved her friends on and set to piling everything into the ruined mess of her bag. So intent on her task was she that she didn’t even notice Draco walking by her.

Pushing his way through a throng of Gryfinndors Draco winced in disgust. It would take him hours to clean his robes of their presence. His mind didn’t want to be there, thinking about idiotic Gryfinndors. It needed to be back in the owlery where he’d just set a letter to his mother.

A letter where he’d asked for her help.

Draco knew it was the correct path in life for him. He knew that that was what he was going to do with the rest of his life. He knew that that was what he had always wanted to do for the rest of his life. He wanted to be a Death Eater.

So why was his stomach doing flip-flops?

His stomach stilled to an icy weight when he glimpsed Ginny in the middle of the hallway. He should just walk past her. Ignore her. He hadn’t spoken to her since the day she had confronted him and if anything he had gone out of his way to avoid her. A very untypical Malfoy response to a problem. In fact, it was such a untypical Malfoy response Draco had begun to be annoyed with himself for acting that very way.

Draco glanced around the corridor. Empty, typical. Right when Draco needed a bunch of people around they were never there. Ginny still hadn’t noticed him, she was so intent on her task. With his earlier thoughts in mind Draco took a deep breath and began to stride past her. His echoing footsteps made her glance up and her lips fell into a frown.

Draco couldn’t stop himself from smirking at her. Though he honestly hadn’t meant to kick her notebook into the wall. Ginny scowled fiercely and leaned in front of him to retrieve it, blocking his path.

Looking down at her, Draco couldn’t resist the insult; “Just what I’ve always wanted, a Weasley at my feet.”

Ginny just brushed the notebook off and looked up at him with too wide, too innocent eyes. “Wow, Malfoy, I never knew you felt like that about Ron,” she grinned wickedly, “He’ll be absolutely thrilled to find out you’ve been harbouring a crush on him for all these years.”

Draco stifled his laugh. “Well, of course he’ll be thrilled,” he buffed his nails on his robe, “I’ll have you know Draco Malfoy is quite a catch.”

Ginny rose to her feet, gathering her bag in her arms. She turned to him and rolled her eyes irritably, though Draco swore that he could see the edge of a grin teasing at her lips. “Sorry, to burst your bubble Draco but Ron’s hostility towards you has not been some sort of repressed sexual tension that’s meant that his dreams have involved throwing you across the Hufflepuff table and doing dirty things to you over a dish of porridge.”

“Or black pudding,” Draco said thoughtfully. Ginny stared at him, utterly confused.

“Malfoy, you make little sense to me on the best of days, either that or I just block out half of what you’re saying,” she shrugged blithely, “but that little sentence made no sense whatsoever.”

Draco gave a one shouldered shrug. “I am who I am. And I actually quite like me.”

Ginny rolled her eyes again. “That much is obvious, Malfoy.” She turned to go, calling over her shoulder, “and I’m afraid that Ron really doesn’t love you, you know.”

“Ah, young Weasley, it is true what they say; it really is a fine line between love and hate.”

Ginny stopped and turned back towards him, her expression mischievous. “With that reasoning you’re deeply in love with Harry,” she paused thoughtfully while Draco looked absolutely disgusted, and then Ginny grinned brightly, “Or in love with me.”

She waved a jaunty wave over her shoulder as she strode down the hall, leaving Draco staring after her.

She had the last word. Again. Draco scowled, he didn’t appreciate it when the littlest Weasley managed to win, no, he thought viciously, I let her win, a battle of wits with the Malfoy heir. And so it began. Because there was no way that Draco was going to let her get away with teasing him.

*

The next time he saw her, she was sat on the edge of the lake, reading a book. Her winter cloak was tucked securely around her though and her cheeks were a rosy red from where the wind had bit them. She looked so serene, like something out of a fairytale story that his grandmother had read to him as a child that he was almost loathe to disturb her.

Draco got over that impulse soon enough and walked over to her, purposely knocking her hood down as he dropped onto the frosty ground next to her. Ginny regarded him icily, tugging her hood back up. “Malfoy,” she pointedly returned her attention to her book, “what do you want? I swear I’m not giving you Ron’s address so you can send sweeping love letters to him over the holidays.”

Draco leaned in close to her, tugging her hood back slightly. “Ginny, Ginny, Ginny.”

She stared fixedly at her book. “That’s my name.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Really? I would have thought it was Virginia.”

Ginny looked up at him, his expression impassive as he stared over the lake. “I prefer the shortened version, thank you, very much.”

Draco leaned back on his elbows still managing to shrug. “You would.”

He watched Ginny grow more agitated from his comment. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Draco didn’t change his facial expression in the slightest. “Nothing. It’s just that the shortened version is very you.”

Ginny threw her book onto the ground in front of her. “Well what sort of name is Draco, anyway?”

From his leaning position, Draco gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It means dragon in Latin.”

“I know what it means,” Ginny huffed.

“You know Latin?”

Ginny glared at him. “I’m not some unschooled moron. Just because I’m a Weasley doesn’t mean that I didn’t have to learn the same basic Latin for spells as you, just because mine didn’t include Dark Arts spells that would probably get you thrown into Azkaban for the mere thought of them doesn’t mean that you’re any better than me and…and…” she threw up her arms in annoyance, “don’t sidetrack me! Why is my shortened name more me?”

Draco let himself fall back so he was lying with folded arms under his head. “Since when do you care about my opinion? I thought it was as valuable to you as a nicely decorated chaise lounge would be to a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”

“I just want to know what the hell you meant!”

Draco didn’t flinch at her raised voice. “Maybe I just meant that you’re not quite mature,” at this he let his gaze wander down her body suggestively, “enough to have such a womanly name.”

Ginny coloured and her mouth opened and closed for a few moments in shock. Muttering swear words she pulled herself up from the ground and stormed off still mumbling.

Catching some of her words, Draco yelled after her, a smirk firmly in place; “I’m not Potter! I have no interest in broomsticks being strategically placed there, Miss Weasley!”

*

Draco had decided that if Blaise took any longer to get ready in the morning he was going to confiscate his hair-care products. A devious smile alight Draco’s features as he thought of Blaise waking in the morning to discover his Monsieur D’Blanche’s ultra-strong styling syrup for men gone. Perhaps he could replace it for something, so that Blaise wouldn’t immediately tell the difference. Draco nearly clapped his hands together in evil mastermind delight. Something that would turn his hair blue. Draco got a sudden mental image of Blaise with bright blue hair everywhere and barely contained the giggle that was threatening to erupt.

Ten minutes and ten different hair colour revenges later Draco was starting to lose his patience. The air by the quidditch sheds was bitterly cold and it was only because Draco had wanted to check his broom over first that they had come down separately. Draco blew his warm breath into his hands, this was the last time he helped a friend out. All this practice was preposterous. Blaise could get on the quidditch team by sleeping with the captain, like a normal person. Draco was presented with another mental image and vehemently decided that perhaps the practice was necessary.

“Not like you to stir before any of your fan club has arisen, Malfoy.”

Draco jumped and then cursed himself for the weakness as he caught the now familiar smirk on Ginny’s face. He was thrown off guard for a moment by her tight-fitting practice robes and provocative position. Draco imagined that she had no idea how alluring she looked stood with one hand resting on her hip, a slight but sly smile gracing her features that perhaps indicated that she knew exactly what effect she was creating.

“Not like you to take notice of my presence,” Draco replied, echoing her words.

She cocked her head curiously and went to lean her broom up against the quidditch shed wall. “Well, we’ve been talking for a few weeks now, Malfoy, I thought I maybe should acknowledge your company.”

“Do I have to acknowledge yours?” Draco asked grumpily, his fingers starting to grow numb.

Ginny grinned lopsidedly. “You always do, don’t you?”

“Occasionally, I have nothing better to do,” Draco grudgingly admitted.

“Is this one of those occasions?” Ginny asked, fiddling with one of the twigs on her broom as though afraid of his answer.

Draco grunted and gestured around the cold, bleak landscape. “Do I look like I have something better to do? Yes, Ginny, I’m stood here admiring the beautiful landscape. I find that I don’t appreciate it enough during the hustle and bustle of everyday life and think that to truly see the exquisiteness of the world around me I must woke up at an obscenely early hour and view it through decidedly sleep-fogged eyes,”

Ginny’s eyes had widened considerably at this long speech though Draco didn’t notice and wriggled his fingers; “Also I appreciate it more when my fingers have frozen and fallen off and I have to use my toes to wave my wand. Though of course I can’t do the more complicated patterns so that leaves me with more time to view the miraculous scenery. Of course, this is one of those occasions!” Draco finished his sarcastic monologue yelling.

Ginny looked at him for a moment and then burst into uncontrollable laughter. Draco stared at her in disbelief. “Weasley, whatever is the matter?”

“You,” she gasped out, tears of mirth running down her cheeks, “I mean that was the most sarcastic thing ever but it was also the longest thing I’ve ever heard you say and,” she gasped again and seemed to get a hold on her herself, “it was damn funny, Malfoy.”

Draco watched her for a moment, his mouth quirking up. “Well, I am naturally hilarious.”

Ginny rolled her eyes at him and leaned against the shed, obviously not intending to leave. “Seriously, what are you doing out here?”

Draco watched her carefully. “Why are you talking to me?”

Ginny coloured and stood from the wall, “Because you were stood there Malfoy.”

“But after last time we spoke…”

“I’ve seen you, Malfoy,” she cut him off, “you still stare at me. You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t think I was womanly enough.” She leaned into his personal space as she said the last words.

Draco stepped away from her, refusing to be drawn in by the smell of her hair. “Maybe I stare at you because you irritate me so much, ever think of that?”

Ginny didn’t seem concerned by this and just shrugged. “Guess that could be it, too.”

She still didn’t look as though she was going to leave. “I repeat why are you talking to me?”

Smiling Ginny leaned back against the wall. “Answer my question and I’ll stop irritating you. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

Draco suddenly saw where she was going with this. “Sorry to damage your ego, Ginny, but I’m waiting for Blaise. The boy is deplorable when it comes to being on time. He spends far too much time fiddling with his hair.”

Ginny didn’t look particularly crestfallen by the news he wasn’t looking for her, she merely looked puzzled. Gesturing at the brooms she asked; “But Blaise isn’t on the team is he?”

Draco shook his head. “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be.”

If possible, Ginny just looked even more confused. “But why are you helping him?”

Draco was lost for words for a moment. “Maybe because he’s my friend?” he said patronisingly.

Ginny stared at him. “Blaise Zabini is your friend?”

Nearly laughing Draco replied; “Yes, Ginny. I do have them, you know.” She looked suitable ashamed. “What did you think we were doing when we sit together in meals and we walk places together talking? Comparing torture techniques? Arguing over whose father owns the most vicious book? Or who has the better hair? Which is me, obviously.” Draco said as though the answer was a foregone conclusion. He paused then, as though unsure as to whether to reveal what he was going to say next. “We’ve been friends since we were children.”

“Really?” Ginny asked looking interested in this sudden insight to Draco as a child. Draco meanwhile was smiling fondly, lost in the past.

“Yeah, we’d get in the worst trouble,” he laughed. “I remember this one time that we snuck into the village…”

“Draco!” the cry of the boy they were discussing cut Draco off and he turned immediately to his friend, recognising the serious tone in his yell.

Gasping, out of breath, as he drew level with them, Blaise shoved a letter into Draco’s hands, casting a curious glance at Ginny as he said to Draco; “It’s from your mother”. Ginny didn’t notice the look directed her way, too busy watching the host of emotions flittering across Draco’s face. Draco stared at the letter for a long moment until he suddenly turned and strode up to the castle, the letter clutched firmly in his hand, not sparing either of them a glance.

*

In all his years at Hogwarts the canopy of Draco’s bed had changed very little. There’d been the unfortunate incident with the accendo charm in fourth year but it hadn’t taken long to restore the heavy green brocade back to it’s original appearance. Though Draco had every stitch of the canopy committed to memory, he still found himself lying on his back, one arm flung dramatically out, observing it intently.

Draco felt the letter in his hand like a heavy, leaden weight. He didn’t dare read it again as he didn’t want the words to have changed. Draco squashed down the lump in his throat that rose up at the thought. Not wanting to it investigate whether he was sickened or happy by the thought that the letter may have changed it’s words, Draco closed his eyes and curled in on himself in an hopeless attempt to sleep.

He was going to be a Death Eater. His inner voice laughed at him, of course he was. There were two things that Draco had had his name down for since the day of his birth; Hogwarts and a career as a Death Eater. Well three things if you included the Wedding registry that his mother had insisted on as soon as he was three months old and pushed Pansy over with one chubby arm with, what his mother had called, unbearable cuteness.

Draco didn’t count the wedding registry as one of the solid things in his life as there was no way that he wanted to marry Pansy. He liked her well enough but, well, she didn’t have red hair. Draco ignored that and sent his attentions back to the letter resting in his hand. He was already at Hogwarts and that left the final piece of the Draco Malfoy life puzzle. And it was lying in his hand. He was going to be an actual Death Eater.

He felt a thrill of pleasure run down his spine. He was going to be a follower of the Dark Lord. He was going to murder and torture. Draco frowned, suddenly sitting upright. Where had that come from? Draco shook his head as though to clear his thoughts and realised that he was crushing the paper. He knew that he would be required to hurt people but it was all in the name of the Dark Lord and that justified it in Draco’s mind.

He glanced at the crumpled letter, his mother’s neat hand swirling across it in words that held the promise of a future he had always wanted. A future where you’ll have to murder and kill. The little voice echoed in the back of his head, making Draco want to bash it hard against the bedpost. He sneered, it would only be mudbloods and Muggles, what’s the difference? He’d be improving the world in his master’s image. Draco was struck with an image of Granger’s face, a face that he had always detested.

She was Ginny’s friend. He supposed Ginny might cry if Granger was killed and Draco felt his stomach twist sickeningly at the thought of her pretty face marred with tears. Draco stamped down on the instinct. He scowled as he remembered his conversations, oh what the hell arguments, with Ginny over the past week. He didn’t know why he cared if she cried, he didn’t even like the girl.

She infuriated him no end. But there was something about the way that her eyes flashed when she was angry and the even prettier way that her mouth tilted when she laughed that made Draco want to infuriate her and amuse her all at once. All in all, there was just something about Ginny Weasley that he couldn’t stay away from.

The letter suddenly felt even heavier. She was a Gryfinndor and however pure-blooded her family might be she would always fight for Dumbledore’s side. Draco sighed. He was going to be a Death Eater. It was exactly what he’d wanted. It was exactly what he’d asked for.

*

The silence at the Slytherin table was disturbing. Draco could see Potter and his little gang sending them suspicious looks, as though their silence was indicative of some malevolent plan the house had thought up. Trying to ignore the fact that Ginny, unlike her brother and his cohorts, was sending him concerned looks, Draco retreated back to staring into his cereal.

“Draco?” Teddy’s voice shocked him out his deep contemplation of the soggy flakes. Glancing up at the boy who was watching him hesitantly, Draco arched an eyebrow in response. “Have you done that homework for transfiguration?”

It very unlike Theodore Nott to sound unsure about anything but the look in Draco’s eyes right then and his behaviour over the past week had him sounding very unsure. Draco could see Pansy shooting them furtive looks from the corner of her eye, whilst Millicent looked on worriedly, Blaise with an indefinable expression just stared at them and Crabbe and Goyle continued as though nothing was happening, which they probably assumed was the truth.

“Of course, I have,” Draco glanced round the rest of the table, “After all, it wouldn’t do for my grades to slip now, would it?”

Pansy blanched at the words, though the others seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at Draco’s less than volatile answer. Draco nearly winced at his housemates reaction to him. He knew he’d been in a bit of a bad mood since he’d received his mother’s letter, a mood that he hadn’t wanted to spend too much time attributing a cause too, but he hadn’t realised that he’d been that prickly with his friends.

Draco knew the value of allies and all of them had been raised in that same mindset, meaning that Draco had no qualms viewing his friends as potential enemies or supporters when envisioning his future. With this thought came the realisation that he had better start pulling his people back into the ally camp before they all retreated to someone who didn’t have one of Pansy’s black clouds permanently hovering over their heads.

This resolution was dashed the instant that Blaise without even glancing at Draco, threw a letter at him.

Draco, having been hit in the forehead by what he would later claim was the ‘evil, pointy envelope’, said to Blaise with venom; “Goddamn, Blaise! What? Is owl post just too plebeian for you now-a-days?”

Blaise didn’t look up from where he was spooning his porridge into his mouth. “Just read it, Malfoy.”

With an exaggerated sigh that had Pansy smiling, due to how ‘Draco’ it was, he ripped open the letter and scanned the contents. His face froze into an expression that had the first years quickly finishing their breakfast and scurrying from the hall.

Pushing his chair back with a loud screech that echoed around the hall, Draco crumpled the letter in his fist. The denizens of the other tables stared at him in unabashed curiosity though many of the younger students looked like they ached to follow the example of the first year Slytherins.

“Blaise, a word,” Draco’s icy voice was directed at Blaise who merely looked up from his breakfast with an innocent expression.

“But I’ve not finished,” he said in an insolent tone that made the rest of the Great Hall cringe in anticipation of Draco‘s reaction.

“Now, Blaise,” Draco ordered, gritting his teeth.

“I’ve not finished, Draco,” the insolent tone was gone from Blaise’s voice, replaced with the same iciness found in Draco’s.

Draco stared at him, his cold, grey eyes expressionless. “Blaise.” The one word was said dangerous and low and Blaise looked at him hard, as though understanding the hidden statement behind it.

Pushing his chair back slowly and dropping his spoon in the porridge, Blaise slowly ambled out the hall, hands stuffed in pockets nonchalantly. Draco followed behind him, his smooth, graceful steps reminiscent of a predator stalking his prey.

*

As soon as the pair reached the Slytherin common room and Draco had sent the first years running with one cruel glance, Draco rounded on Blaise, eyes blazing.

“What the hell is the meaning of this?” he yelled at Blaise, who was coolly leaning against the mantelpiece.

Blaise didn’t reply for a moment, making Draco even angrier. “I’m becoming a Death Eater,” he looked at Draco whose mouth was set in a fine line, “I thought the letter was quite self-explanatory.”

“Blaise!” Draco shouted, loosing all his usual self-control, “Why would you do this? I know you too well to think that it’s just because you’re jealous.”

Blaise stood from the mantelpiece, his eyes flashing as viciously as Draco’s. “Of course it’s not jealousy, Draco. Did you forget that we’ve both wanted this since we were children or has your blown-up ego twisted things so that you’re the only sixth year Slytherin allowed to have the Mark?”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, the cool mask slipping for a moment allowing Blaise to see a distraught face that shocked him.

“For God’s sake, Draco. We both wanted this,” he said, sounding terribly close to pleading, his voice rough.

“You’re using the past tense there, Blaise.”

“I’m aware of my grammar. I still want this. I’m just beginning to wonder about you.”

Draco span to stare at him, the firelight casting into shadow his angry features. “Of course I damn well want this! It’s my father in Azkaban! I’m the one with revenge issues here, Blaise!”

“Then it’s fine, isn’t it?” Blaise said, his voice silkily dangerous.

Draco stared back at him, fuming silently. “I suppose it is.”

He turned to leave, pausing by the door to say to Blaise; “I just hope you understand what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Blaise stared at his back. “Do you, Draco?”

Draco turned his head and smiled without any humour. “No.”

*

“Are you okay?” The kindly voice directed at Draco, made him glance up in surprise. He hadn’t expected anyone to find here him, among the bushes at the edge of the Forbidden Forest with the snow lightly falling around him. But someone had found him through the white curtain that had enveloped Hogwarts that week. Ginny’s worried face frowned down at him and Draco felt a thrill at the thought that she was worried about him. But he wasn’t feeling like playing nice with the littlest Weasley, even if she was the best looking of the whole lot of them.

“I’d be better if you weren’t here,” Draco said abruptly, his attention returning to the trees in front of him.

Ginny frowned but didn’t move to leave, just dropping down next to him. “You don’t look okay.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Discussing hair charms with Granger maybe?”

Ginny laughed. “Hair charms with Hermione? You really are off your game today, Malfoy.”

Draco grimaced. “Fine then, shouldn’t you be playing hide the wand with Oafish Dean?”

“Hide the wand?” Ginny looked disgusted, “That’s gross, Malfoy, even for you and ‘Oafish Dean’? Why on earth do you call him that?”

Shrugging, Draco said; “Perhaps because he’s oafish?”

“He is not oafish in any way, shape or form!” A wicked gleam appeared in Ginny’s eye. “You wouldn’t be jealous, Malfoy, would you?”

Draco looked at her disgustingly, squashing down the little voice that told him she had hit the nail on the proverbial head. “What on earth is there about Oafish Dean that I could be jealous about? His amazing good looks? No, because the boy looks like a manic pair of garden shears attacked his hair with the sole intention of making people scream in horror when they looked upon him. His astounding sense of wit? I think not, I have more wit in my little toe. His academic ability? Can the boy even spell academic? His snazzy dress…”

“Okay, okay,” Ginny interjected, “I get it. You’re not jealous of Oafish…” she saw his grin and caught herself, “of Dean. So back to my original question; are you okay?”

Draco sighed, looking away from her. “Whatever makes you think that something is the matter with me?”

“Aside from what I always think is the matter with you?” He shot her an irritated glance which she ignored, “And a disturbing new aspect of your personality when it comes to you naming Gryfinndors? Probably just the fact that you’re sat all alone at the edge of the Forbidden Forest looking as though your favourite pet just died.”

“Never going to happen,” Draco said assuredly.

“What isn’t?” Ginny asked, puzzled.

“My favourite pet dying,” Draco explained in a cheerful sort of voice, “I don’t have one. Any animal that I grew attached to, Father would have killed.” Ginny looked horrified and Draco shrugged as though it was a common occurrence in the Malfoy household. “It was better that way. Emotional attachments are bad for everyone involved.”

He glanced at Ginny as he said this, taking in the way her brown eyes were filled with compassion. He sighed irritably, not used to the expression and disliking the way that he liked her aiming it at him. “What did you want, Weasley?” he asked bluntly.

“I…I…” she gathered herself together, “I was going to practice quidditch and saw you looking desolate in the snow and thought that I should check that you were okay.”

“Why would you do that? We’re not friends.” Draco said, finality ringing in his voice as he said the last part.

Ginny actually laughed out loud at the idea. “No, we’re not. But I’d do the same for anyone when they looked as upset and as close to hypothermia as you did, Malfoy.”

“I’m fine,” he turned to her, suddenly angry though he couldn’t tell the source of it. “So why don’t you go an find someone else to pester?”

Strangely for Ginny, she didn’t get angry, merely stared back at him, evenly. “I also came to see you because of you and Blaise arguing at breakfast.”

“We didn’t have an argument.”

“Then the whole school needs retraining in their body language reading techniques.”

“Then they really should get a new teaching position open because we didn’t have an argument.”

“Then why are you sat out here?”

Draco stared at her icily. “I wanted the silence.”

Ginny sighed, annoyed, and stood, brushing the light snow off her cloak. “Fine then Malfoy. I’ll leave you to your silence. Good luck getting that to help you with your problems.”

“I don’t need you help with my problems, Weasley,” Draco replied, all anger gone from his voice, leaving it sounding hollow.

“Like I said Malfoy, I would’ve done the same for anyone,” Ginny still sounded annoyed, though she hadn’t missed the melancholy timbre of Draco’s tone.

“Don’t do it for me.”

Ginny shook her head and turned to go, his voice stilling her before she took three steps.

“It’s like I said, emotional attachments are bad for everyone involved.”

Ginny watched him for a minute, cool grey eyes regarding the trees in front of him, empty in their icy contemplation. His expression didn’t reveal anything to her, the cool mask as cold as the air around them, his aristocratic features pale in the lightly swirling snow. The only sign that she even had that he was alive was the breathes of air that left him in white steam, filtering through the snow.

*

Draco had been in a foul mood all week so he wasn’t particularly thrilled when Snape came and retrieved him from Charms to go and see Dumbledore. Stamping along the hallways alongside an impassive Professor Snape, Draco scowled thinking how the last thing he needed was to see the senile old man who always preached about the vomit-inducing good fight.

When he walked into Professor Dumbledore’s office Draco quickly scanned the room, taking in the strange instruments that filled the shelves. He glanced at Dumbledore amid his perusal, his gaze freezing as it fell upon the other occupant of the room.

“Mother?” he asked incredulously, Narcissa Malfoy’s figure looked out of place in the Hogwarts setting. His father’s presence in Hogwarts had been expected, his father such a big part of both his worlds, but to see his mother in a place ridiculously far from home brought Draco up short.

“Don’t gape, Draco. It’s very unbecoming,” her smooth tones echoed around the silent room as she rose from her chair and glided over to him, raising a silk gloved hand to his cheek though she stopped a few inches away from his skin as was her customary manner.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I just wasn’t expecting to see you here.” Draco kicked himself for the way his tone came out grovelling, a tone as unbecoming to a Malfoy as gaping. His gaze flicked instinctively to Professor Snape who was watching the proceeding from Dumbledore’s side.

“It seems that your mother wishes you to join her at your home this weekend, Draco,” Snape said, his tone not betraying any of his feelings on the subject.

Draco’s heart gave an involuntary leap, whether in happiness or fear he couldn’t tell. Schooling his features into what he knew from experience was an innocent expression he turned back to his mother.

“Oh?” he said, his eyes conveying his real question. So, it will begin?

Narcissa nodded her head slightly in answer to her son’s unspoken question. “Yes, dear. I thought it might be nice for the two of us to spend some time together.” She looked at the two professors and smiled weakly in a perfect impression of a lonely woman, “I just get so dreadfully bored on my own.”

Draco could tell that neither of the professors believed a word his mother was saying. There was no way that Narcissa Malfoy was ever going to be a lonely woman in pain. She’d been that far too often when her husband wasn’t in jail and she’d managed then with her many ‘friends’. It was also public knowledge that she was a strong woman, one who would never break down in front of other people.

Draco took in his self-possessed mother who was regarding the professors through watery eyes. He knew she knew all that. And she wasn’t worried, otherwise there was no way that she would have come personally. It meant she had nothing to be afraid of. Draco felt a thrill as he realised how much power the side he was offering himself to possessed.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, resting his hands on the desk in front of him. “Whatever the case may be, I must say that it is very uncommon to take students out of school for the weekends, especially with the Christmas holidays so near.”

Narcissa barely held back a sob, the perfect actress. “Surely he is my son and he is allowed to come home with me?” The warbling words held a threat that Draco knew Dumbledore noticed.

“I’m ahead on all my work, Headmaster,” Draco interjected, suddenly realising that his silence might appear as though he didn’t want to return home. He saw Snape’s lips thin further at his voice and Draco once again wondered why his Head of House would think of holding him back from something so important.

Dumbledore glanced up at Snape who nodded tightly in agreement. Dumbledore sighed and pinned Draco with bright, blue eyes. “Then I suppose there is no way that I can stop you from returning, Draco.”

Draco stared at his Headmaster for a long moment, wondering if his mother had caught that underlying message.

Narcissa smiled delightedly. “Then it’s all settled. Draco, dear, just floo home on Friday at six.” She leaned in and hugged him lightly, her hands barely touching his skin. Her lips by his ear, she whispered; “Be prepared, my son. I hope you are ready.”

Draco gulped and forced a smile on his face. “It will be nice to be home for a few days,” he looked at Snape, who was watching them with a pained expression. “I best get back to Charms. Mother, Professor Snape, Professor Dumbledore.” After an inclination of his head in each person’s direction, Draco fled down the stairs, trying to will the coiling mass in his stomach to still.

The stench of damp permeated the air, giving the whole room a rancid atmosphere, that attacked Draco’s nostrils in a fiercely minded attack. Wrinkling his nose, Draco imagined the smell was fitting to the acts that had most likely been committed in the room.

His mother, stood to the side, resplendent in floor length ivory robes looked even more out of place among the dreary Manor dungeons then she had in Hogwarts. But the cool and slightly malicious expression on her face perfectly mirrored those around her. Draco looked around the men forming a half-circle about him. Their faces were shrouded in darkness but Draco could make out glints of cruelty in the shadow that he perceived as their eyes.

Fighting back the apprehensive expression that was aching to appear on his face, Draco fixed his attention on his mother. She turned to him, the planes of her face highlighted by the flickering lanterns her smile holding no humour and chilling Draco with it’s malevolence.

“I trust that Avery and his companions will take good care of you,” she said softly as though he was going to play quidditch with a group of boys, not be put through the rigours of Death Eaters training with a bunch of murderers. Leaning forward slightly, she brushed her bare hand along his cheek. Draco nearly started in surprise at the feel of her skin, so foreign to him. For an instant something shone in her eyes, something that Draco had imagined other mothers must look at their sons with.

But then it was gone and Draco was left facing his cool, familiar mother who with a nod towards the hooded figures, swept from the room.

Left to face the sinister figures, Draco felt a lump rise in his throat, his father’s words echoing around his head. You are a Malfoy. Be a Malfoy. Do not disappoint me. Taking a deep breath Draco repeated the words as a mantra, his father’s voice ringing in his head.

Avery stepped forward and regarded Draco through those cruel eyes. “So, young Malfoy, you wish to be a Death Eater.”

A voice in the back of his head, that sounded suspiciously like Ginny was, screaming No! But Draco fought back his misgivings that had arisen at the sight of the dreary dungeon room, lit with flames like some Medieval torture chamber. Moving towards the older man Draco stared defiantly into his shadowed face. “Yes.”

Avery nodded and gestured the other men away. They all nodded together and then left. Draco’s look of surprise must have shown on his face because as Avery tugged his hood down he shared a smile with the young man.

“Just to scare you really,” Draco managed a shaky smile, inside something was screaming at him to notice the type of men that he was getting involved with. Except, that he was that type of man. And so was his father. And all Draco had ever wanted to be was his father. Avery was still smiling at him, the effect, Draco supposed, was supposed to be comforting but the foreign expression on the man’s gnarled face, merely put him on edge. “So, how’s school doing?”

Draco bit back the sarcastic retort that was on the edge of his tongue, achingly aware that he wasn’t the one holding the wand. “It’s fine,” he managed, inordinately proud of himself for keeping the waver from his tone.

Avery threw an arm around Draco’s shoulder, apparently not noticing the stiffness of Draco’s stance. To Draco the arm felt like nothing more than a shackle bolting him to the floor.

“What about girls?” Avery laughed, a sound that actually contained humour. The sound was so contradictory to the room around them that Draco started to relax. The good-humoured laugh echoing around the room, taking the edge of his fear. “God, I remember when you were just a baby and know I get to ask you about girls!” He nudged him conspiratorially, “So are there any?”

Draco was struck with an image of Ginny that he pushed away as soon as it appeared, and tried to answer something along the lines of Pansy when the pain that hit him drove him to his knees.

Agony. It was pure agony that blistered his very bones, turning his body to a writhing heap on the floor that was incapable of even uttering one comprehensible word. Draco felt himself start to lose a grip on his thoughts, swimming around in a sea of memory, the past and present merging to one until Draco couldn’t work out where, or even who, he was.

And then it was over. As Draco slowly came back to himself he looked up from his crumpled position on the cold floor into Avery’s malevolent expression. He smiled again, this time it fitted his face better, it being cruel and twisted. Leaning down he grabbed Draco by the arm and roughly yanked him up, pushing the boy away when he sagged involuntarily against him.

“Never let your guard down,” Avery growled, inches away from Draco’s pain wracked, gasping face. “That was your first lesson.”

He let go of Draco, letting him stumble against the wall. Draco willed himself to stand up, dragging his body up the rough stone in a effort not to fall. He locked his eyes with that of Avery, a power play that he knew he had no hope of winning and yet would engage in anyway. Because that was what Malfoy’s did.

“Follow me,” Avery said watching him impassively, before turning and walking from the room, his cold, demanding voice echoing behind him, “You have many lessons to learn yet, young Malfoy.”

*

The image of his mother’s detached face followed Draco back to Hogwarts as he lay on his bed, the curtains tightly drawn, his body aching in ways that he had never thought possible. Draco tried to reach for a glass of water, the pain where his shoulder had been dislocated in ‘fencing practice’ making him cringe and fall back to the bed, cradling it.

Closing his eyes against the familiar canopy, Draco allowed himself to feel the pain that had resulted from his various lessons. Avery was a cruel, vindictive man who obviously disliked Draco particularly because of who his father was. For all of Avery’s pain-inducing techniques, Draco had to admit that he had learnt the lessons well.

Draco laughed, though a wince followed from his bruised ribs, as he imagined what the noble Gryfinndors would say about the torture he had received from those whose side he fought on. From instinct, Draco’s hand strayed to a mark just above his wrist. The scar, years old, was a constant reminder of one of his father’s lessons.

A lesson that Draco had learnt well. Never let your enemies know that you may fear them. His hand absently ran along the line from the shackle, imagining Potter’s face if he ever showed him how much his superior flying skills scared him. Draco was always willing to admit that someone was better than him at something, he just wouldn’t admit it to anyone else.

No scars would remain from his weekend and for that Draco was thankful. He’d seen McGonagall’s eagle eyes survey the one on his wrist too many times and any new ones would do nothing but raise questions.

His hand rubbed absently up his arm. He wondered if McGonagall’s eagle eyes would notice the Mark when it was bestowed on him. Draco allowed himself a small smile at the thought, the weekend may have been painful but Draco had seen the small glint in Avery’s eye that showed he had been impressed.

Draco Malfoy would soon serve the Dark Lord just as his father had. A thrill of ambition ran through Draco. Perhaps better than his father had.

The movement in his right arm suddenly reminded Draco of the burning of his muscles and his hand stilled, remembering Avery’s competence at inflicting pain. Get to murder and kill. The small voice inside his head reminded him. Draco scrunched his hand into a fist. He was going to be a Death Eater.

He shut his eyes, blocking out the memory of Avery’s eyes as they had pointed the wand and yielded the whip at him over and over again. Blocking out the memory of eyes that had been enjoying what they‘d been watching.

*

“Draco.” It was far too early. That much Draco was sure of, anything else, like the ache in his muscles and the firelight flickering through his open curtains, was all periphery.

“Early,” he mumbled, curling himself into a ball and blocking out the light with a strategically placed, aching arm.

“Fine,” muttered the unwelcome voice and Draco was aware of the bed tipping as someone clambered into it. Moaning soundlessly, Draco rolled away from the visitor and snuggled deeper into his duvet. “Draco, for Merlin’s sake, will you wake up?”

The voice was more familiar now, though just because Draco knew it was Blaise didn’t mean he had any more incentive to move. That was until Blaise started poking him in the shoulder. His recently dislocated, very painful shoulder.

Wearily opening his eyes and ineffectually batting Blaise away, Draco rolled back over and observed his friend through foggy eyes. “Blaise, what the hell are you doing in my bed?” Draco managed with a croaky voice.

Blaise plastered on a shocked expression. “You mean you don’t remember last night? Draco, how could you!” With a dramatic flourish Blaise collapsed against the headboard.

Draco growled and pulled himself up, wincing at the pain in his arms as he did so. Blaise noticed this and looked concerned. Draco, in turn, noticed this and sent Blaise a clear warning. Nodding wordlessly, Blaise snagged a steaming mug of coffee from the bedside table and handed it to Draco.

Inhaling the steam deeply, Draco took a grateful sip and leant, next to Blaise, on the headboard. “To begin again, in hopefully a more sane manner, Blaise what the hell are you doing in my bed?”

Blaise shrugged before replying matter-of-factedly, “You wouldn’t wake up.”

“Shaking and yelling didn’t work for you?”

“Worked fine for me. Just didn’t work too well for you.”

“So you decided to climb onto my bed?”

“Would you really have wanted me to throw cold water over your head?” Draco’s horrified expression provided the answer that Blaise needed and he laughed. “Though your hair really is in a state anyway.”

Draco’s hands instantly went to his hair before he shot Blaise a disgruntled stare and mumbled petulantly; “Oh, shut up. Still don’t see why I have to be up this early.”

“It’s a school day, moron. We do have those troublesome things called lessons, you know.”

“I don’t want to go to them,” Draco whined, chugging his coffee.

Blaise scrutinised his own cup carefully before replying. “You could always go and see Madam Pomfrey for all those aches and pains.”

Draco’s eyes quickly slid to his and Blaise stared back evenly. Swallowing carefully, Draco leaned over Blaise and put his cup down. “We’re going to be Death Eaters.” A grin broke out over Blaise’s face, a grin that chilled Draco to the bone.

For an instant, gone was his childhood best friend with his witty banter and generally cheerful disposition and in his place was a man with an expression that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Avery.

“Yes, we are,” said Blaise happily, “gonna hurt like hell apparently, but still.” He climbed off the bed, parting the curtains. Turning back to Draco, he looked like the boy he’d known for years again. “We’re going to be Death Eaters.” Draco was fiercely reminded of when they used to play at being Grindelwald and his top general when they were children. Blaise suddenly looked concerned again. Draco followed his gaze to the purple and black bruises that covered his shoulder. “I’ll go get Pansy. She has some healing potions and stuff. Just get dressed, okay?”

Draco nodded and watched Blaise begin to leave and then something made him call out, “Blaise?” Turning away from the door, Blaise regarded him expectantly. Draco paused, unsure on what he had been going to say. He’d just spent the weekend with a man who could have killed him in a hundred different ways, at least three with just a kumquat, and whose expression generally appeared like a vulture’s upon spotting a fresh carcass. And he’d been practically fine with it. So why did it bother him so much to see the same expression on Blaise’s face? Draco winced and just said; “Nothing.”

Blaise looked at him quizzically for a moment. “Okay,” he gestured at the beds containing Crabbe and Goyle. “Wake the trolls, will you?”

Draco’s mind was abuzz though all he knew for certain was that he was feeling uncertain about everything. And that he poked Crabbe and Goyle far harder than was necessary when waking them up.

*

The ache in Draco’s arm had reduced to a dull throb though Draco decided that reaching for the book on the top shelf in the library was obviously pushing his pain receptors to the limit. Swearing proficiently Draco shifted the retrieved book under his shoulder and rubbed his shoulder, tears threatening his vision.

“Are you okay?” The familiar voice in the familiar question made Draco groan and he looked down the book lined stack to find Ginny stood watching him, that damn concerned look back on her face.

“Don’t you ever get tired of asking me that?” Draco asked wearily, leaning back against the shelf.

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him threateningly. “I was looking for a book, Malfoy and found you swearing and looking as though someone just hit you with cruciatus.” Draco bit back a laugh at how accurate her sarcastic comment was. “What was I supposed to say?”

“Move Malfoy, I want a book?” Draco suggested unhelpfully.

Ginny scowled at him. “Fine. Move Malfoy, I want a book.”

Draco waved a hand over the shelf in front of him, not budging an inch. “Be my guest.”

Fuming silently, Ginny stamped up the aisle and came to stand in front of him, investigating the shelf in front of her. Draco found himself faced with her hair, a sheet of bright red down her back, and began to regret his decision not to move. Just as Draco was about to give into the urge to run his fingers through it Ginny turned away from the shelf and unceremoniously tugged the book Draco was holding away from him.

“Hey!” he protested as she turned the book over and read the title.

“This is the book I need.” Draco grabbed it back.

“Well, it’s the book I need too.” Ginny’s face set in a fierce expression as she pried the book away from Draco’s hands.

“Well, like you said; ‘Move Malfoy, I want this book.”

Draco reached forward so he was inches away from her face and picked the book from her arms. “I think you’re paraphrasing, Miss Weasley and I was here first so I’m taking the book.”

But Ginny’s attention was shifted from Draco’s steely grey eyes staring at her. Following the direction of her gaze, Draco found that his robes had slipped, showing some of the bruising that had spread up to his neck.

Her eyes wide, Ginny’s hand moved carefully towards his exposed neck. “Malfoy, what happened?” she asked, breathily.

Draco jerked away from her hand, hitting the shelf behind him. “Nothing, Weasley,” he spat out. Her attention moved back to his face, the lines of her face grim.

“Malfoy, what happened?” He scowled at her and her expression changed to one of shocked horror. “Wait, didn’t you go home…”

Before she had a chance to finish Draco had covered her body with his own, his hand planted firmly over her mouth. Her wide, frightened eyes stared at him as he whispered into her ear, ignoring the feel of her body pressed against his; “Don’t tell anyone, Weasley.”

He leaned back a fraction to regard her. “I had a very interesting weekend.” He grinned wickedly, though inside Draco felt as though something was dying. “Want to see what I learnt?”

After a moment, Ginny shook her head and Draco roughly let her go. Wiping her mouth, she regarded him with loathing. Draco stared at her dishevelled appearance and felt a flash of hatred unlike anything he had ever felt before. Self-hatred.

Throwing the book at her so hard that she fell against the shelf behind her, jostling some of the heavy volumes, Draco said weakly; “You wanted the book.” Then he fled the library, not noticing the stares he received from the students clustered there at his very un-Draco bedraggled appearance.

Every time that Draco had stumbled into a conversation with Ginny she’d been alone. Now that he was actually looking for her to talk with she was constantly surrounded by people. If it wasn’t Oafish Dean, it was the stupid trio and if it wasn’t either of them it was just some random fifth years whose only conversations seemed, to Draco, to consist of discussions on hair and the opposite sex.

Now was such a time. Draco scowled at the mass of giggling girls in front of him and rolled his eyes as one of them noticed him stood behind them and smiled shyly. He glowered back at her until she turned away, whispering something into Ginny’s ear. Ginny turned to look at him then, her expression blank. Draco stared at her, his eyes willing her to stay.

She kept his gaze and as the other girls moved on Ginny stayed where she was, her arms crossed in front of her, her expression stony.

“Weasley,” Draco started, surprising himself with the lack of a sneer in his voice. Ginny began to tap her foot impatiently, her eyebrows rising as she waited for him to continue. Draco stopped, realising he had no idea what to say. Apologise, the word rose to the forefront of his mind but Draco’s everyday personality did nothing but laugh at it. Malfoy’s, particularly Draco Malfoy, did not apologise.

Ginny sighed. “Is there something you actually want, Malfoy, or do you just want to spend the afternoon drooling over me?”

Draco’s eyes widened at the implication and he felt the familiar snag of anger. “I’d be more likely to drool over a hippocampus than you, Weasley.”

“Then could you possibly hurry up and say what you were going to say? I have better places to be and better people to see,” Ginny’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, “Unless of course, you’re just going to threaten me again. Learnt anything else interesting since last week?”

Draco blanched and ran his hand through his hair. He missed the slightly shocked look on Ginny’s face as she watched him mess up his normally perfect hair. “Look, about that.”

“ ‘That’? Oh, you mean how you threatened me when all I was doing was trying to show some concern for you?”

“Yes, that. Well, I just wanted to say that maybe I didn’t go about it in the best way.”

Ginny looked incredulous and then a slow grin spread across her face. “Malfoy, are you trying to apologise?”

“No!” Yelled Draco, vehemently, inwardly wondering what the hell possessed him to seek out the youngest Weasley. Though he knew that it was because of the gnawing guilt that had kept him awake for days, seeing her angry face everytime that he closed his eyes. Recalling his sleepless nights, it occurred to Draco that apologising might be a good idea. “Fine, yes. I was trying to apologise.”

Ginny burst out laughing as Draco looked on indignantly. “What?” he asked irritably.

“Oh, nothing, Malfoy,” she smiled, “you’re the only one who could apologise with a sneer in their voice. Now, say you’re sorry.”

“What!”

“Say it.”

“Fine. Sorry,” mumbled Draco. Ginny grinned. “How can you be so fine with all this?”

Ginny shrugged, her expression wistful. “I’ve had worse done to me, Malfoy. Don’t think that you’re the epitome of pure evil or anything.”

“Don’t tell me that, I just got the business cards printed up,” Draco said, forgetting for an instant that he was talking to a Gryfinndor, the banter rolling of his tongue.

Ginny laughed. “Sorry, maybe you could add ‘im’ and be the ‘epitome of impure evil’.”

Draco grinned, an expression that shocked Ginny due to it’s lack of malevolence. “Surely, that’s just as bad.”

“Bad? Why, Malfoy, I assumed you’d like the title of pure or impure evil. Look good on your CV and all.”

The smile faded from Draco’s face. “I sincerely doubt that that’s the qualities that rulers of evil look for. Wouldn’t want a challenger in their ranks, now would they?”

Ginny paused for a moment, her expression serious. “What do they look for? Battered and bruised bodies?”

Draco span to face her, all humour gone from his face leaving a cold mask. “I thought we’d agreed to let that drop?”

Ginny stood firm. “Nope, we agreed that I forgave you for threatening me over it, but no dropping of the matter was discussed.”

“Well, let it drop.”

“No.”

“Why, would I tell you a damn thing, Weasley?” Draco hissed, “So you can run off and tell your little noble friends? The choice was mine.”

“You chose to have that…” she spat the words out, “that done to you?”

He leaned in close to her, practically feeling the anger radiating from her. “Yes.”

Ginny’s eyes flashed up at him. “Then you’re a fool.”

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. “Perhaps. But I’m not a fool that you have to worry about.”

“What if I already do?”

“Ginny,” she started at the sound of her first name, “you’d worry over a Nundu if it looked at your with a sweet expression.”

“Don’t worry, Draco,” a thrill that Draco was sure Ginny hadn’t intended ran through him when she said his name, “you’re never in danger of having a sweet expression.”

“But yet I’m in danger of having you worry over me.”

“Why is my worry a danger to you?” Ginny asked weakly, her eyes flittering over the planes of his handsome face.

“It’s not,” Draco said bluntly, “It’s a danger to you.” Ginny’s eyes widened.

“You’re in that deep.” It wasn’t a question. Her eyes flicked to his arm and Draco covered it instinctively, though intellectually he knew there was nothing to hide.

“Don’t make me threaten you again,” Draco implored, hating how she made his voice feeble.

She looked up at him with wide, brown eyes. “What makes you think I’d listen?”

He stared at her for a moment, something flickering between them when a shout interrupted them.

“Ginny!”

Her eyes widened in horror and she pushed Draco into a doorway, covered by shadows, with a frenzied; “Ron!”

Leaving Draco hidden in shadow, Ginny ran down the hall, intercepting her brother as he walked down.

Draco watched him look curiously over her shoulder. “What you been doing?”

“I just went for a walk,” Draco was impressed at how easily the lie seemed to roll off her tongue.

“Right,” said Ron, “Well, you best go pack, don’t want to miss the train, do you?”

Draco could practically see Ginny’s eye roll. “I’m not you Ron, I packed yesterday. And I’m not five, you know.”

“I know, I know,” Ron said as he draped an arm over her shoulder to lead her away so involved in his explanation of big brothers and little sisters that he missed Ginny’s glance over his shoulder.

Draco didn’t though and while he couldn’t quite work out what the expression meant, he couldn’t rid his mind of the look in her eyes the entire way back to King’s Cross.

*

Christmas had certainly lost it’s appeal since he’d been a child. Draco stared out of the window of the carriage into the busy London station. The student’s face shone with the relaxation of a good holiday, one in which they’d most likely eaten much more than they should have and received stupid little presents that they had been thrilled by. Draco let his head drop back against the upholstered seat. Then why did he get to feel like he’d been dragged through a impenetrable door and then back again?

His wand lay in his hand and Draco let his long fingers caress it. That was the reason. He held his wand up, admiring it in the faint light from outside. Draco had always loved his wand, the ability to cast complex spells had rolled off his tongue as easily as the words of the language he’d been raised in. He weaved it through the air, leaving a trail of green sparks in it’s wake.

And now he could do so much more with it. He remembered the ‘lessons’ he had learnt this holiday, this time so much more like actual lessons. He remembered the dead look of the creatures that he had killed, the words to the death curse running off his tongue, no different to the words he would mutter for a levitation of a glass.

They looked like crumpled balls of fur when he had been finished with them. He remembered his and Blaise’s joke so long ago with Snape and winced.

Least he hadn’t thrown them off the top of the North Tower. No, a voice whispered viciously in his head, you just tortured them to death. Draco swore and gripped his head in his hands, lettings his memories dissipate until he felt himself come back to normal.

“Draco?” Pansy’s voice cut through his thoughts and he looked up hurriedly.

“Hello, Pansy.” She came to sit opposite him, Draco instantly noting the dark circles under her eyes. He stared at her for a moment until she met his eyes, a gentle shake of her head telling him that she didn’t want to talk about it.

“Christmas sucks, doesn’t it?” Pansy asked bitterly, her usually eloquent tones missing.

Draco laughed at her phrasing, agreeing bitterly. “Yes. Yes it does.”

Suddenly Pansy leaned over and gripped his hand, her eyes desperate. “My father he…” She choked on the words, and Draco knew that this was something she wasn’t supposed to share. “I don’t know if I can, Draco,” she sobbed out.

Staring into her watery eyes, Draco gripped her hand back. “I know,” her eyes lit up hopefully until Draco pushed her hand away and laughed bitterly, “but what else can we do?”

Pansy looked as though she was about to cry, a sight that shocked Draco, until after a few deep breathes she seemed to regain herself and leant back. “I know,” she mumbled, her eyes fixed on the station outside, “I will always do what is best for the cause.”

There was something about her words that disturbed Draco but he wasn’t given the chance to ask as at that moment Blaise ambled in with Teddy not far behind. “Crabbe and Goyle are raiding the food cart and Millicent’s keeping them in check,” Teddy supplied helpfully as he dropped into the seat next to Pansy.

Blaise sat down more gingerly next to Draco, who shot him a sympathetic glance. Pansy watched them both before tossing two small bottles at each of them.

“Drink it,” she ordered in a maternal fashion. Blaise looked at his dubiously as Draco gulped his down, keeping his eyes fixed to Pansy.

Blaise experimentally sniffed his and Pansy rolled her eyes. “Do you want to go into the Great Hall looking like you were bashed upside the head with a skillet?”

“A skillet?” asked Teddy curiously. No-one bothered to reply to him, with Blaise slowly sipping the potion, his face screwing up at each taste, and Draco watching Pansy steadily.

She smiled grimly at him before saying bitterly; “I’m helping.”

*

Draco was finding that it really was very difficult to miss Ginny Weasley even in a school of hundreds of students. That bright red hair acted as a beacon and for that Draco was grateful. It meant that the sight of it gave him an opportunity to run.

“Blaise, really could you imagine Pansy dating anyone who isn’t some Slytherin high-flier?”

Blaise shrugged. “I don’t know, a couple of the more ambitious Ravenclaws might meet her standards.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I barely meet Pansy’s standards. A Ravenclaw certainly won’t do.”

“You only reach her standards because you’re supposed to marry her.”

Draco winced. “Ah, yes. My marriage to the lovely Miss. Parkinson, won’t that be grand?”

Laughing Blaise dropped a friendly hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be fine,” he said, emphasising each word.

“Sure. That’s if Pansy sorts herself out.”

Blaise stopped Draco with a hand on his chest and turned a concerned expression on his friend. “Is she all right? I mean, I know she seemed a little off when we first got back but she’s been fine since.” Blaise looked dubious. “Right?”

Draco sighed tiredly, “I don’t know.” He met Blaise’s incredulous gaze. “I really don’t!” He defended himself.

Blaise held up a placating hand and the pair began to walk along the corridor again. That was when Draco saw her.

Ginny was walking towards him, chatting with Granger. Draco placed a restraining hand on Blaise’s arm, ignoring the boy’s indignant glance. Granger scowled at him as they drew level but Draco ignored her as well, his attention fixated on Ginny.

Her eyes shot to meet his briefly and then they turned back to Granger, not revealing anything to Draco.

“What was that about?” Blaise asked angrily, throwing Draco’s hand off his arm.

“Do you really think that harassing Mudbloods in the corridor and getting ourselves in trouble with our Muggle-loving Headmaster is the best way to earn the Dark Lord’s favour, Blaise?” Draco asked scornfully in a low voice.

Blaise looked suitably chastised, though he scuffed the wall with his shoe petulantly. Draco rolled his eyes and tugged Blaise’s robes.

“Stop being such a child,” Blaise made an indignant noise and muttered something that sounded like ‘hypocrite’ until Draco fixed him with a knowing look and he stopped, “Want to go practice fencing?”

Blaise smirked. “And beat you without even trying? Of course.”

Walking along, Draco snorted. “What? Will my hands be tied behind my back?”

“No, it will be my pure skill.” Blaise said in a mock arrogant air.

“So, I’ll be blind, right?”

“Skill, Draco, skill.”

“Am I going to lose both legs between here and the practice room?”

“Skill.”

“Oh wait, is a heavy object going to render me unconscious so you can just poke me with the sword?”

*

Shooting glances at Ginny across the Great Hall over breakfast had become something of a hobby for Draco. Fervently praying that no-one noticed was his other favourite occupation. Draco sighed, taking a large bite of his toast as he watched Ginny do the same on the other side of the Hall.

He couldn’t talk to her, Draco didn’t trust himself when it came to being around the youngest Weasley, so all he had left was fleeting glances across the crowded hall and through the teeming corridors that in reality did nothing but make him want to talk to her even more.

So intent was Draco in his appraisal of Ginny that he nearly missed the swooping owls that flew through the hall, depositing papers as they went. Draco retrieved his and steadfastly ignoring the curious stares of the others he dropped it to the side. Continuing to eat his toast, Draco didn’t feel the need to retrieve the paper until shocked gasps when up around the hall.

A sinking feeling filled Draco and his eyes met Blaise’s over the table. Filled with foreboding, Draco grabbed the Daily Prophet, mindful of the other Slytherin’s gazes locked on him.

The headline stared back at him, turning Draco’s insides to ice. ‘Malfoy Escapes’. It was simple for the normally flamboyant Prophet but Draco didn’t need to read any more, his heart had already stopped. Or he was fairly sure that the feeling in his chest was similar to what people must feel when their hearts stopped. He didn’t dare meet Blaise’s gaze, merely tossing the paper at him.

Draco pushed his chair back slowly, not registering Pansy taking the half-eaten toast from his hand and placing it back on his plate. He didn’t feel her hand on his arm, or hear her voice saying his name. He didn’t notice Blaise yelling after him as he walked steadily from the room, his face a cold mask, his steps even and echoing in the silent room as they all watched him go.

*

As he lay spread-eagled on his bed, Draco distantly decided that he had spent far too much time admiring the canopy of his bed. It couldn’t be healthy for a sixteen year-old boy to spend that much time in his bed, doing nothing but staring at the roof of it.

Draco fixed his mind on this rambling detail, refusing to acknowledge the enormity of what he had just read.

His father had just escaped from Azkaban. Everytime the thought skittered across his mind it hit him like a fist to the gut. He should be thrilled, he knew that. He should have walked out of that hall with a smirk firmly in place, showing everyone that Malfoy’s were better than them and they couldn’t be kept back by the pompous Ministry.

Instead he’d all but ran out, unsure of how he was supposed to deal with the fact that his father, the man he had always wanted to be, had just escaped from jail. Draco’s lip curled up involuntarily in disgust. His father was a fugitive.

And Draco had always wanted to be just like him.

His mind whirling with the thought Draco began to aggressively punch the mattress, not caring that anyone could walk in at any time and disturb him, and see the tears that were threatening to run down his face. Punch, he wanted to be his father, punch, his father was a fugitive, punch, his father was worthless, punch. Draco fell back against the bed, dry sobs wracking his chest as he tried to sort through the tumult of emotions that were careening through him.

The small owl that swooped through the window was barely noticed by Draco until it found it’s way through his curtains and dropped the letter on his chest. Staring at the plain envelope, addressed with his name, Draco felt nausea rise up his throat.

He’d know his father’s handwriting anywhere.

*

Ginny was waiting for him when he emerged from the dungeons later that night. Draco took one look at her as he swept past her on the steps to the Great Hall and kept on walking, causing Ginny to quickly stand and hurry after him.

“What do you want, Weasley?” Draco asked coldly, his attention on the doors in front of him.

“I thought we’d got over your inability to let me worry about you?” Ginny said irritably, practically jogging to keep up with him.

“Apparently not.” Draco answered pushing on the doors to the grounds. He turned to face her, his expression impassive. “Go away, Ginny.”

He saw her start as he used her name again and then he closed the doors on her, keeping her in the warm, safe castle and leaving him to face the dark, cold grounds.

He waited a moment to see if she would follow and pushed down the pang of regret when she didn’t. Draco tugged his cloak around him tighter and strode along the path, past the icy lake, where the giant squid was unsuccessfully batting the ice, and not stopping till he reached the edges of the forbidden forest.

He stared at the trees, their gnarled hands reaching for each other, creating a maze for anyone who ventured into it. Draco couldn’t see more than three feet in and he ignored the fear that ran down his spine at the memory of the things that resided in the forest. Sucking in a deep breath, he pushed past the bristly undergrowth that lined the trees and climbed through the mass of branches that inhabited the forest.

Finally finding himself in the small clearing that he had been directed to, Draco resolutely ignored his misgivings at being in such a foreboding place. Trying not to notice the strange sounds that were emanating from the darkness around him, Draco grabbed the small sachet that rested in his pocket and tossed the powder on the ground in a rough circle.

“Incendio,” he muttered, watching the flames rise from the forest floor, purple and ethereal in the darkness. Draco stepped towards them, feeling the chill that arose from the flames, a contradictory temperature that always surprised Draco. “Father?”

Slowly, an image of Lucius Malfoy began to inhabit the space between the flames, his body grainy at first and then becoming more solid as the spell took hold.

Draco wondered where his father was holding up his end of the spell, and as he slowly began to take shape he watched him critically. His face and body were more gaunt than before, his clothes were rags and his normally immaculate hair hung in tangled clumps around his face.

But he was still Lucius Malfoy. And Draco still felt the power and aura of authority that radiated from him, an aura that apparently even Azkaban couldn’t destroy.

Lucius spent a few moments critically evaluating Draco, and the cool eyes that slid over him were so familiar that Draco didn’t even feel the need to squirm. After he was apparently satisfied with what he saw, Lucius smiled at his son. “Draco, it is good to see you again.”

Draco nodded acquiescence. “You too, Father.”

Lucius fixed him with piercing eyes, that were so like his own. “I hear that you have come far since I left you.”

“Yes, Father,” Draco paused, unsure of how much information to volunteer. “I have begun my training.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, reminding Draco of who he inherited the expression off. “Begun? My son, I heard that you were practically finished with it.”

“I suppose, Father.” Draco didn’t elaborate, his eyes leaving his father’s knowing gaze and straying over his clothes. The sight that met him made Draco’s eyebrows rise in shock. “Are you hurt?”

Lucius looked confused, an expression that didn’t sit well on his face. “What? No.”

“But,” Draco gestured at his clothes, “the blood.”

Lucius looked down at himself and laughed, a real, humour-filled laugh. “Oh, that is not mine,” he smiled at his son. “I had to kill a Muggle for his clothes.”

Draco fought to keep the disgust from his expression. “You killed a Muggle?”

Lucius stared at his son as though he didn’t know him. “Yes, Draco, I required his clothes.”

Draco nodded hurriedly. “Of course, sorry Father. I was just worried about you.”

Though still eyeing him warily, this seemed to mostly convince Lucius. “All right,” his eyes suddenly lit with manic glee, “I must go. But Draco,” he reached a hand out, as though to pat Draco’s shoulder but instead he rolled up his sleeve to reveal the grinning skull and entwined serpent. “We shall be Death Eaters, together, my son.”

Draco managed a watery smile in return before his father’s figure became more indistinct, still proudly showing him the Mark.

As the flames died down, Draco dropped to the forest floor, hugging himself. His father had killed a Muggle. Draco shook his head, his father had killed lots of Muggles. He would kill lots of Muggles in the service of the Dark Lord. Draco fingered his clothes, they were what his own father had taken a life for. It wasn’t in the service of the Dark Lord, it was for the thrill. He could have stolen clothes, he needn’t have killed a man.

Draco rubbed his arm where the Dark Mark would be. We’ll be Death Eaters together.

Draco sat there till the faint rays of sunlight began to penetrate the canopy of branches above him, a single thought running through his mind.

I don’t want to be my father.

*

Draco walked around in a daze for days. His friend’s attempts to draw him out of his funk didn’t work in the slightest and soon only Blaise was poking him in the arm during mealtimes in a hope to get him to contribute to the inane discussion around him.

He also had to avoid the curious gazes of the teachers who were watching him constantly. He imagined that it must appear strange to them. He was Draco Malfoy and his father’s escape should have had him sneering and taunting Potter and his little cronies all day long.

Instead he did everything in his power to avoid the trio and their assorted tag-alongs, going as far as to stop glaring at them through Potions. Even Snape looked shocked at that change in classroom dynamics, though Draco often thought he saw something in the teacher’s expression that looked almost like pride.

Draco was perfectly happy continuing this way but his friends had other ideas.

“It’s an intervention,” Teddy declared happily, hopping up onto a table in the deserted classroom his fellow Slytherins had dragged Draco into.

Draco looked incredulous. “Never heard of it.”

Looking slightly fearful, Teddy explained. “It’s a Muggle thing. Well, an American Muggle thing.”

Pansy groaned at the expression on Draco’s face as Teddy said this. “Theodore, I thought that I made it perfectly clear you weren’t to do anything but sit and look, well, not pretty exactly, more like a piece of furniture that occasionally had coherent thoughts?”

Teddy shrugged and jerked his finger at Crabbe and Goyle who were stood by the door, like two lumbering monoliths. “I thought that that was their job?”

Draco held up a hand, retrieving the silence he wanted. “Let me get this straight. You drag me into a room against my will, to have some bizarre Muggle psychoanalytic ‘intervention’?”

Blaise stood from his slouching position against the wall and moved towards him. “Yes,” he said, coming to stand barely a foot away from Draco, “and you’re not going anywhere till we work out what’s up with you.”

Draco stared defiantly back at him. “There is nothing wrong with me. I’m just dandy. Of course, I’ve not been my most buoyant the last week but if it makes you feel better, Blaise, I could perform a one-man show of ‘Gertrude and the Angry Hinkypunk’ in the middle of the Great Hall complete with shadow puppets.”

“Would you include the musical numbers?”

“Blaise, I’m fine,” Draco insisted, exasperated. Blaise stared back at him evenly.

Pansy spoke up then, her eyes flickering between the two boys. “You just didn’t have the reaction we expected you to have when your father escaped, Draco.”

Draco turned to look at her and noticed that her eyes held that hopeful air again. “Maybe I just realised that I don’t want to be like my father.”

Pansy sat up, her hands gripping the table, knuckles white. “You mean…” she trailed off, her eyes wide.

“Yes, what do you mean by that, Draco?” Blaise growled threateningly, spinning Draco around with an iron hand clasped around his shoulder. Draco looked pointedly down at the hand until Blaise moved it and Draco then raised his eyes to look at his oldest friend.

“I mean I want to be better than him.” Blaise stared at him for a moment and Draco wondered how he would interpret what he had said. Teddy had breathed a sigh of relief, Pansy had looked as though her last hope had been dashed though she had covered it quickly but he knew that Blaise, out of all of them, would see the other meaning of his words.

But Blaise just nodded and left the room, the others following him. Pansy moved back for a moment to give Draco and impulsive hug, allowing him to see the wetness in her eyes and then she was gone, leaving Draco alone in the room.

He sighed deeply and pushed open the door, entering the empty corridor. He came up short when he found the corridor not as empty as he had previously assumed with Ginny standing directly in front of him.

“You know,” he started conversationally, “I heard that stalking was generally only an activity that psychopaths participated in, Miss Weasley. Something you’d care to share?”

Ginny didn’t smile. “I saw your little Slytherin buddies and figured that you might be around.”

“We do all flock together, that’s true. We can’t stand being around people who don’t have as good hair.”

Suddenly, Ginny seemed to lose her composure letting out an angry; “Argh! For God’s sake, Malfoy, could you possibly stop with the witticisms and actually talk to me like a normal person?”

“I could try,” Draco answered solemnly, “What is it that you want?”

Ginny stared up at him. “You’ve been avoiding me. I want to know why?”

“What?” said Draco, genuinely confused, “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“Yes, you have,” argued Ginny, punctuating each word, with a finger jabbing his chest.

“No, I haven’t,” countered Draco, realisation dawning, “I’ve been avoiding the trio.”

That brought Ginny up short. “Oh.” Draco stared down at her, taking in her faded robes, tangled hair and flushed cheeks. “Are you all right? With your father and everything?”

He had stopped listening. She was everything that his father would hate. And she was everything that Draco wanted. I don’t want to be my father. I don’t need his approval anymore.

Without another thought, Draco suddenly grabbed Ginny and dragged her into the deserted classroom behind him.

“Malfoy! What the hell?” He cut of her protests by claiming her lips with his own.

He gripped her around the waist, feeling her hand pushing at his chest and clawing at his back. He didn’t move his lips away as he felt her hands begin to drag him close, her scratches becoming caresses.

He let himself fall into the sensations of her soft lips under his, yielding to the pressure of his kiss. The moans of approval she made against his mouth, sent a shock through Draco, igniting the burning in his blood.

Slipping his tongue into her mouth, Draco pushed her up against the wall, feeling Ginny’s body moulding perfectly against his. He tightened his grip on her, his arms circling her small body, his hands tangling in her fiery red hair, realising that he never wanted to let her go.

Draco wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, his lips crushing hers, her body pressed up against his. All he knew was that he couldn’t tear himself away until oxygen began to be a pressing issue.

Gasping, Draco pulled away, dropping his forehead against hers. She was gasping in time with him, her lips swollen and her eyes wide. Ginny raised her head to look at him, her flushed cheeks blushing even more as she looked into his eyes.

“What…?” she gasped out, her hand moving from his back to place it over her pounding heart. Draco stumbled back from her, shock on his face.

“I…I…” It was the first time in his entire life that Draco could recall not having something to say.

“You kissed me,” Ginny declared, accusingly, her breathes becoming more even and the flush in her cheeks appearing to be more from anger than desire now. Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“I thought that was obvious,” he said, unable to help his snide tone.

Ginny seemed to ignore it and just kept staring at him. “Why the hell would Draco bloody Malfoy kiss me?”

“Tut, tut, Ginny. Swearing? What would your mother say?” The insult rolled off his tongue, allowing him to avoid any real answer.

Ginny’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Malfoy,” she warned.

Draco drank in the sight of her for a moment, her hair more mussed than before, her lips still swollen, still looking completely beautiful. “Because I wanted to,” he answered, his voice raw with honesty.

If possible, Ginny’s eyes widened further. She took a step towards him. “You, Draco Malfoy, wanted to kiss me?”

“Where are we? In a bloody courtroom?”

“Draco.” Draco started at the use of his name, seemingly used without any conscious thought on her part.

“Yes, Virginia ‘Ginny’,” he made little quote marks in the air around the word, “Weasley, I wanted to kiss you.”

She cocked her head, considering him with a shrewd look in her eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” Draco said, scuffing his shoe on the floor, not used to having to give emotional reasons behind his actions.

“Draco,” she crossed her arms in front of her chest, Draco raising his eyebrows as the action brought to his attention her breasts. Ginny followed his gaze, “Hey! Stop that!”

She swatted him lightly on the chest and Draco grabbed her wrist, leaning forward slightly to whisper seductively; “That’s why I kissed you.”

“You wanted me,” Ginny whispered. Draco paused, unsure if her words were a question or not.

Opening his mouth to try to reply, his answer was cut off by Ginny’s lips smothering his own. Making an inarticulate noise against her mouth, they fell together, and all thoughts of his answer, really all coherent thought, fled his brain as they stayed locked together in the abandoned classroom.

*

The clash of steel on steel echoed around the room, the only other sound the brush of feet against the stone floor. Draco kept his eyes trained on Blaise, aware that the other boy could be just as component with a sword as he was when he put his mind to it. And Draco also knew that he wasn’t exactly at his best.

The memory of Ginny was invading his mind, making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything other than the taste of her lips, her body writhing under his, her hair tangled around his fingers. Barely missing a lunge from Blaise, Draco cursed himself. Concentrate, he insisted to himself. They might only be practicing but the sword would still be plenty sharp.

But Ginny, the way her brown eyes looked when they were clouded with desire, the sounds that she made as he nipped at her pulse point. Each meeting since that initial kiss was distracting him continuously, making lessons and meals and mundane Death Eater training seem irrelevant. He hadn’t even realised that he and Blaise were headed to the practice room until they’d arrived and Blaise had told him, with a suspicious look on his face, that Draco had agreed to practice.

Draco brought his sword up to counter Blaise’s in a reflex action that had Blaise lunging for Draco’s now open side. Barely in time, his thoughts too occupied in images of Ginny, Draco span away though Blaise noticed his slowness and went on the attack, stabbing his sword with ferocity at Draco’s body. His mind not fully back in the game, it was with some surprise that Draco felt the sharp point of the sword just below his ribs.

Both boys stared in shock at the scene. The point of Blaise’s sword, nestled just below Draco’s ribs. A clear kill.

“I beat you,” said Blaise, out of breath, incredulity rather than pride, lacing his voice. “I beat you.” He span, raising his arms in the air. “I beat you! I beat you! I beat you!” He chanted, gleefully.

Draco strode over to the side of the room, depositing his sword and picking up his school robe. “Congratulations, Blaise.”

He turned back to find Blaise still with his arms in the air, a giant smile on his face, chanting happily; “I beat you, I beat you, I beat you…”

Draco sighed. “Blaise, do you want me to get you a camera to record the moment? A medal, maybe? Perhaps a plaque?”

“I could use a medal,” Blaise said, considering, “A big hefty one that I could wear to meals,” he smiled slightly, “maybe one big enough that I could eat off it. Make it real shiny, too. It’s no good being a champion if my hair isn’t looking perfect.”

“You know, I never before realised how gracious a winner I am. Well done, Blaise, you’ve allowed me to discover one of my redeeming qualities. Mother will be so proud.”

Blaise shrugged. “Still. Beat you.”

“I always beat you.”

Narrowing his eyes at him, Blaise advanced on Draco. “This wasn’t a pity win, was it?”

Draco’s face wrinkled in disgust. “Pity? Whatever makes you think I even possess that ridiculous character trait?”

“True,” Blaise conceded, “but I still beat you. Which, however assured I am of my tremendous skill, is still slightly strange. What’s been up with you lately?”

Lips crushed against his, her body yielding to exploration, breathy moans filling the air, their bodies moving together….

“Nothing,” replied Draco, absent-mindedly fiddling with his robe.

“Ri-ight,” Blaise drew the word out, he placed his sword carefully against the wall and avoided Draco’s eyes, “You’re not worried are you? Because you know that you’re in easily…”

Draco started. “Of course I’m in,” he nearly shouted, sounding vaguely insulted.

Blaise held up placating hands. “I know. That’s what I said. Calm down, will you?”

Draco looked at his grinning friend, memories of Ginny mixing with the world around him. She’d hate the fact he was going to be a Death Eater, a topic their conversations had safely steered cleared of. Though he couldn’t forget the fearful look in her eyes the first time that she’d hesitantly pulled his shirt off and the way that she had brushed her fingertips over the bare flesh of his left arm.

But he was Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, son of a Death Eater. And sure, he didn’t want to be a Muggle-killing-lover like his father but that didn’t mean that he wanted to be a Muggle-lover like Ginny.

He gazed evenly at Blaise. “We’re both in.”

Blaise laughed. “Of course we are.”

Grinning, Blaise grabbed his robe and strode out of the room, the unspoken rule between the two that the loser carried the swords back. Crouching, Draco grabbed the swords, cradling them loosely in his arms.

We’re going to be Death Eaters. The familiar grin tugged at his mouth. It was something they’d always wanted, going as far as to play at the game when they were little with Teddy, Draco, of course, being Lord Voldermort. Draco shifted the weapons in his arms to a more comfortable position. He supposed that his ability to use his sword was just as important as his ability to use his wand. Running one long finger down the blade, Draco imagined pushing the metal into a living thing, their heart stopping beating as the blade pierced it.

A wand was so much more impartial. Draco dropped one sword to the floor and raised the other in the air, waving it around as he had done his wand on the train. He was going to be a Death Eater. He stopped moving, the image of Ginny’s face appearing in his mind. She wasn’t as innocent as all her little family thought, Draco had had the nights on the East Tower to prove that and even without them he could have worked it out after hearing about the whole Tom Riddle affair. But Ginny, even with that brush with dark forces, wouldn’t understand his need, his desire to be a Death Eater.

He was Draco Malfoy. He didn’t want to be his father. But he was still his father’s son.

Draco let the sword drop to his side and he sighed heavily. He was going to be a Death Eater.

Draco gathered up the other sword and walked from the room, ignoring the thought in his head, eerily reminiscent of his conversation with Pansy, weeks earlier;

But what else can we do?

*

“How can you think that?” Draco decided that he had been right in his earlier assessment of Ginny, she really was more beautiful when she was angry. Of course, he didn’t think that telling her that at this moment in time was prudent due to fact that all her anger was directed at him.

He sighed irritably and suppressed the smile that threatened when he saw her eyes flash. “Because it’s the truth?”

“So, you’re telling me that the Falmouth Falcons are better than the Chudley Cannons?” She looked at him incredulously.

Draco just smirked back, leaning against the tree trunk in the isolated part of the grounds they’d found themselves in. “No doubt about it.”

Ginny smiled slyly, and moved towards him from her own sitting position. Crawling on all fours she slowly ran her hand up Draco’s thigh, an innocent expression on her face. “Sure I can’t convince you to convert?”

Grinning, Draco grabbed Ginny and yanked her into his lap, trailing kisses down her neck. “Not a chance in Hell,” he mumbled causing Ginny to grumble, the sound quickly changing to a shriek as Draco divested her of her cloak.

“Draco it’s cold out here!” she protested, “I am not taking my clothes…” A shrill sound invaded their hiding place, causing Ginny to look around curiously, “What on Earth?”

Draco suddenly cursed and lifted Ginny away from him. “Damn! I forgot about this blasted thing!” Standing up he hastily started to tug objects from his pocket, throwing things on the floor.

Looking amused, Ginny grabbed an elegant looking quill from the pile on the grass and began to twirl it in her hand. “What are you looking for?”

“Hold on…aha!”

“Did you just say ‘aha’?”

“Great band now be quiet,” Draco fiddled with the object in his hand until the shrill sound ceased.

Ginny was looking up at him curiously. “Isn’t that Muggle music and what the hell is that?”

“Millicent has dubious music taste and this,” Draco held up the small object so that Ginny had a clear view as she clambered to her feet, the quill she’d been playing with forgotten, “is a Maelaner.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. “Really? They cost a ton,” she sounded awed and then blushed as she caught a glimpse of Draco’s aristocratic features.

“Yeah, me and Blaise got them as kids so we could talk to each other from our manors.”

“Wow, we had cans and a piece of string.”

Draco looked confused, “What?”

Ginny waved the subject away; “No matter,” she peered curiously at the glittering silver ball, “Looks kind of like a Snitch.”

Draco grinned widely. “That exactly what me and Blaise thought. His mother was not happy when we started to throw them around the rose garden.”

“I imagine not,” Ginny chuckled, “So, Blaise is trying to talk to you?”

Draco’s eyes widened, “I forgot about that part.” He leaned in to brush her lips and turned to go. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Ginny just stared at him, her face getting angry again. “You could just listen to the message here, Draco.”

He stared steadily back. “It might be private.”

“Probably not, though.” Not moving the pair looked at each other, caught in the moonlight of the night around them.

Slowly, his insides like lead, Draco moved to whisper; “Cyoan,” into the top of the small ball.

Blaise’s voice filled the clearing, his drawl more pronounced than usual, telling Draco that something was wrong. He glanced at Ginny, glad that she wouldn’t know that quirk of Blaise’s personality.

“Draco, where are you?” Blaise’s disembodied voice queried, Ginny’s lips quirked up at the question as Draco caught her eye, “Snape wants to see us. About some extra work, I think.”

Draco watched Ginny breath a sigh of relief, though his own lead-filled insides had apparently decided that becoming a mass of wriggling worms was preferable. Trying to ignore the worms, Draco had decided long ago that he was far too manly for butterflies, he managed a smile at Ginny.

She returned the expression, leaning up to kiss him. “You best get going.”

“Yes,” he agreed, not wanting to leave her in the slightest, “I’ll see you.”

He turned and swooped out of the clearing, pushing past the branches that had protected them from sight. Draco faltered as he came into view of the imposing castle.

Blaise wouldn’t have tried to find him if it hadn’t been important. It certainly wouldn’t have been about some extra potions work. Draco began to move again, his feet growing heavier each step he took towards the school.

*

“Ah, Mr Malfoy. Good of you to finally join us.”

Draco hovered in the doorway to Snape’s office, taking in the scene before him. Professor Snape sat imposingly behind his large desk, reminding Draco why the first years worked so hard to avoid being sent to see the Potion’s Master. Blaise was slouched in a chair by the fire, his dark head lolling over the back of the green leather.

“Sorry,” said Draco stepping fully in and taking the second seat by the fire, ignoring the one in front of Snape. He watched Snape’s eyebrow rise and saw Blaise’s curious look as Draco avoided giving a reason for his lateness.

Ignoring both of them Draco leaned back, letting the heat of the fire seep through his clothes. “What’s going on?” He asked without preamble, his eyes flicking to the impassive professor.

“I have some news I was asked to pass on,” Snape began. Blaise sat up and leaned forward eagerly though Draco didn’t move an inch, his eyes fixed on Snape.

There was a silence after his words, Snape’s eyes staying trained on Draco in a silent battle of wits. It was interrupted by Blaise, who had obviously grown bored; “Well?”

Snape’s eyes shot to Blaise and Draco’s gaze lazily returned to the fire.

Standing abruptly, Snape moved around to the front of the desk. He regarded each boy seriously, Draco still contemplating the fire.

“I have been instructed to tell you that you will be required to return to Malfoy Manor in exactly three weeks time,” Snape said smoothly, the slight curl of his lip the only outward sign he disliked being the messenger for this.

Draco moved to watch Blaise. “Yes,” murmured the other boy, the firelight reflecting in his blue eyes giving him a sinister appearance. He locked gazes with Draco and frowned at the impassive expression on his face.

Snape cleared his throat and both boy’s eyes rose to look at him. “Personally, I do not think…”

“No!” shouted Blaise, he rose to his feet. A warning look from Snape made him retake his seat. “We are old enough for this and damn it we’re prepared!”

“You’re prepared?” Snape snarled, “Don’t be a fool, Zabini, you can never be prepared.”

“But, Professor…”

“No,” ordered Snape, turning his back on the pair. “I do not agree with it. It is too suspicious for one.”

Draco watched him lazily. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he said, his voice low and indolent. Snape span to look at him but Draco was already looking at the fire again.

“Neither of you know what you’re getting into!” Snape spat out each word.

Blaise suddenly stood to face him. Draco, watching the scene, was surprised to see Blaise was nearly as tall as his professor. “Maybe we don’t. But at least we’re willing to do something to help the Dark Lord.”

With that Blaise snarled and stalked out of the room, glancing at Draco who was still curiously watching Snape as he left. Snape made a similar snarling expression and dropped into the seat next to Draco.

Draco watched him impassively. “Draco,” began Snape, “You seem to understand more about the intricacies of the situation than Blaise…”

Holding up a hand to cut him off, Draco went back to staring into the flames. “You won’t find an ally in me.”

Snape growled. “You are too young! It is too dangerous!” He leaned forward, his voice low as though he was playing his last card; “And if Dumbledore finds out, which he is likely to do, you are done for.”

Draco looked at him steadily, his mind clicking pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. “I suppose we are.” He stood suddenly, shocking Snape. “But it is already done. Me and Blaise,” he smiled twistedly, “I suppose you could say that this is our destiny.”

Snape regarded him through sad eyes. “You can write your own destiny, Draco.”

Draco suddenly laughed, dispelling the sombre mood that had settled over the room. “Don’t tell Trelawney that. She’ll be seeing Grims in your tea for months.” Draco moved to the door, his smile faltering as he looked at his teacher who suddenly looked much less imposing and much older and more fragile than he had when Draco had first walked into the room. “I’ll see you in Potions tomorrow, Sir.”

Snape’s voice stopped him, though Draco didn’t turn around. “You may not be my ally, Draco, but I will always be yours. Remember that.”

*

When Draco returned to the common room he found Pansy sat in front of the fire, her eyelids at half mast. Walking towards her, he noticed the book open on her knees though all her attention was on the flickering flames.

“Pansy?” Draco asked, sitting in the chair opposite her. She started, her hand covering her heart.

“Draco, you scared me,” she said accusingly.

He raised an eyebrow at her, noticing her dressing gown. “You didn’t wait up for me, did you?”

Tugging her dressing gown around herself tighter, Pansy shook her head fervently. “No,” she picked up her book, “I was reading.”

Draco smiled slightly and leaned forward to tip the book the right way up. “It’s upside down, Pans.”

Rolling her eyes, Pansy tugged the book away from him and tossed it on the arm of her chair. “Fine. I was waiting for you.”

“I know you want me…”

“Oh, please,” Pansy cut in, exasperated, “I was reading and then Blaise stormed in and I thought I’d wait for you.”

Draco looked over her shoulder to the entrance to the boy’s dorms. “Is Blaise on his own?” he asked, concerned.

Pansy shook her head. “No, Teddy followed him in and I think Vincent was already in there.”

Draco snorted. “Least Crabbe will provide him with a solid surface to punch.”

Pansy’s eyes widened. “What happened to incite violent tendencies in Blaise?”

“Because he’s usually so level-headed?”

Pansy swatted Draco lightly on the arm. “Oh, shush. What happened?”

Draco slouched back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily. “Snape practically told us we weren’t prepared to join the ranks.”

Pansy began to flick through the pages of her book. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

Draco sat forward, indignant. “What? We’ve been through hell to be prepared!”

“Right,” said Pansy, sarcasm dripping from her words, “and I’m sure you could walk out of here right now and kill someone, Draco.”

“If I had to.”

“True,” agreed Pansy, “But could you kill just for the hunt of it?”

“If I had to.”

Pansy shook her head mournfully. “Liar.”

“It’s not all about killing, Pansy,” said Draco, rising to go and talk to Blaise. She continued flicking through the pages of her book, though Draco noticed it was upside down again. Tiredly she raised her head and looked at him.

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” insisted Draco adamantly, intent on convincing himself as much as Pansy, “It’s about serving someone who will make the world better for all of us.”

Pansy turned to look in the fire, her eyes wistful. “ ‘For all of us’. Sound’s nice, Draco.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re not too big on the killing, Pansy, but you still serve him, do you not?”

She span in her chair to look up at him. “Of course I do!” she insisted, vehemently, “It’s just my mother…”

“Your mother died for the cause, Pansy,” Draco said, his voice soft.

“Yes, she did,” Pansy agreed, her face set, “and I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

Draco stared at her. This was a rare display from Pansy and though she appeared perfectly contrite, Draco couldn’t dispel the feeling that that wasn’t the real reason behind her hatred of his near Death Eater-dom. He’d always been too good at reading people for his own good, it inspired far too much paranoia in him about the people he knew he could trust.

Pushing the thought away, Draco leaned down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re not going to lose any of us, Pans.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

“Sure I can. We’ll just use Crabbe and Goyle as human shields. You know those two could stop a Exitium curse if it hit them in the stomachs. Not only would it provide a solid screen due to the massive amount of fat they’ve accumulated from the twelve square meals a day they consume but I’ve been slipping them pieces of bezoar in their pumpkin juice so even they’re likely to come out of it okay,” he squeezed her shoulder in a brotherly gesture, “We’re going to be fine.”

She laughed and swatted him away. “Go check Blaise hasn’t thrown a shoe at Vincent’s head and let me read my book in peace.”

He laughed and walked to the dorms, looking back and frowning at the expression on Pansy’s face as she ignored her book and stared into the fire. He imagined it was very similar to the expression he’d worn on the walk back from Snape’s office.

*

“You know, you never actually asked me if I broke up with Dean,” Ginny remarked as she leant against Draco’s bare chest slouched on the East Tower. Draco, playing with a tendril of Ginny’s hair, made an incoherent noise, his mind elsewhere.

Ginny noticed this and smiled wickedly. “Because, well,” she started, “the truth is that I never did and really I’ve just been seeing both of you this entire time. It really has been hard to have the energy but I’ve managed okay and all this exercise has done wonders for my figure. Of course, Dean’s a lot better…”

The rest of her words were muffled by Draco’s finger placed over her lips. “Ginny,” he murmured into her ear, “can we just sit, please?”

She struggled to turn and look at him. “Draco, what’s wrong?”

“I forgot to add ‘not talk’.”

Ginny frowned at him. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He stared at her, his face solemn. “I can’t.” Ginny snarled and tried to climb out of his grasp but Draco held her firm. “I want to, God, I want to. But, right now, I just can’t.”

Stopping her struggle, Ginny’s hand strayed to his left arm. “Is it about…?”

He turned his head away and shut his eyes, giving Ginny all the answer she needed. Draco could see the tears threatening Ginny’s vision and he reached up to brush them away but she jerked away from his hand as though it was a burning poker.

She batted at him as she tried to stand, Draco keeping his arms locked around her waist. “Draco, let me go,” he just tightened his hold, hating the look on her face. “Let me go!” she shouted and Draco did, hating the anguish in her voice.

She stumbled to her feet and pulled her clothes from the pile on the floor, tugging them on. Once she had done so she span to face Draco, who hadn’t moved from his position against the parapet. He stared up at her, her lips still swollen though now her pretty face was covered with tears.

“I thought I could do this,” she said, her voice raspy. Quickly she ran a hand through her hair, before saying simply; “but I can’t.”

Rushing forward, Ginny crouched and crushed her mouth against Draco’s in a bruising kiss. His arms came up to encircle her waist but she pushed him away, standing and backing up.

“But I can’t,” she repeated more firmly. “Goodbye, Draco.”

Draco couldn’t move as she fled down the tower steps. He’d lost her. His hand strayed to his arm where she had so delicately placed her hand. With a sudden burst of anger he stood, pulling on his clothes and ignoring the chilled air. She wouldn’t have stayed anyway. She would have taken one look at the Mark on his arm and ran and told Dumbledore about a new little Death Eater right in this very school. Draco swore kicking the parapet with his bare foot.

He swore again at the pain that caused him, reminding himself why he should wear shoes for his displays of aggression. Crumpling to the ground, Draco let the wind play with his light blond hair, whipping it across his face.

It was ridiculous anyway. He didn’t even like her that much. She was annoying, she would never shut up and she’d always do the exact opposite of what he wanted her to do. And she had that annoying habit of worrying about him. So, he’d wanted her for a little while. He was over that. He’d had Ginny Weasley and he didn’t care anymore. He was going to be fine.

Draco stood and headed down the stairs, muttering under his breath to the empty air; “Yeah, right.”

*

Hurriedly packing clothes into his expanding suitcase, Draco didn’t notice Blaise leaning against his bedpost until he spoke.

“Nervous?”

Draco shrugged, “Not sure. I mean I’m fairly positive I won’t need three V-neck sweaters but I can never be sure. It’s a dreadful worry.”

“Draco.”

“No,” he said adamantly, doing up the case.

“Because you’ve not been sleeping,” Blaise pointed out, hefting his own case from the bed.

Draco shot him a look. “Didn’t know you cared,” he responded dryly.

“It’s obvious when your tossing and turning practically kept the logs up.”

“That’s not nice. Crabbe and Goyle have at least enough intelligence between them to merit being called trees. Least they have roots.” said Draco, heading into the common room and over to the fire.

“Whatever. You’re avoiding the subject.”

“For God’s sake, Blaise. Fine, I’ve not been sleeping. It’s not worry over this, I assure you,” Draco said, taking a handful of Floo powder from the bag Professor Snape had given them.

“Then what is it?”

“I keep having this recurring nightmare where Millicent’s tap-dancing on my head whilst you’re singing; ‘I’ve got a lovely bunch of Jelly Slugs” in a fluorescent pink lycra suit. Would you want to sleep with that image in your head?”

“I don’t know. What’s Millicent wearing?”

“Blaise,” Draco insisted tiredly, “I’m fine. It’s not like I’m lying awake at night agonising over some girl.”

“True, you would have bragged about that by now.”

“Yep,” muttered Draco, “would’ve told the whole school.” He threw the powder on the fire, saying clearing and strongly before stepping into the flames; “Malfoy Manor.”

A/N: OMG, OMG, OMG!! I am so sorry about how long this chapter has taken to get out but I do have some sort of excuses. And yep, that’s a plural. I went home for Christmas and in between having a full-time job to pay off the ridiculous amount of debt I’d accumulated in my very first term at uni and actually seeing my friends and family and eating and sleeping I really just didn’t have the time to get this written. Also, I wasn’t writing on my laptop and it was just damn strange to write this on another computer. Oh, and sorry but as I have two essays to write, one for Monday (eek!) the next chapter may be a little while too. Once again, sorry and I’m also going to say sorry for the chapter as I’m not entirely sure it works but it needed to be in the story so, hey. Hope there are still people out there reading and reviewing!

*

Home is where the heart is. Draco wasn’t entirely positive where he’d heard the inane saying but he’d always decided that it absolutely meant nothing in the slightest to him. To Draco a more accurate saying would run along the lines of ‘home is where the ridiculously opulent bedroom, hundreds of servile house-elves and his favourite beef casserole is’. Draco wasn’t a huge fan of placing sentimentality onto inanimate objects, even vast manor houses, (castle, Draco would always insist fiercely,) that one day he would own and run.

Which made the sickening twist in his stomach that Draco experienced the moment he stepped through the flames in the vast entrance hall quite unexpected. He felt Blaise tense up beside him at the sight that met their eyes. Intellectually, Draco had known he was in a war, the various dehabilitating lessons he’d suffered should have told him that, but it wasn’t until he saw the throng of people milling around his childhood home that Draco suddenly realised one important fact.

He was part of an army.

Various wizards inclined their heads in greeting as they swooped by, giving Draco a glimpse of flashing metal at their waists.

“I thought we were wizards,” muttered Blaise as he noticed the daggers attached to the belts of the Death Eaters.

“For close combat,“ Draco answered distantly, taking in the mass of weaponry at the foot of the stairs. Draco felt a chill run through him as his sweeping gaze ran over the pile of healing potions cluttered against the far wall. The chill turned to nausea as he looked closer and saw that the small bottles actually held kamikaze potion, it’s acid green colour swirling prettily through the dainty glass. Just like a Death Eater to choose death over painful recovery, Draco thought wryly, his mind’s eye busy picturing the comfortable infirmary back in Hogwarts.

He noticed Blaise’s eyes reach the bottles and they flickered to Draco’s for reassurance. Draco averted his eyes, having no reassurance to give but he noticed Blaise’s hand tighten on the pocket of his robes where he’d deposited the small healing draught they’d filched from Pansy’s collection.

Trying to appear as though he knew what was happening and was in control of the situation, Draco began to swerve through the crowd of wizards, arrogantly waiting for them to move out of his way. To his credit, and that of the Malfoy name, most of them did move, Blaise following in his wake.

As he pushed past an aging wizard with only one ear Draco saw her.

His mother was stood in the midst of some of the most respected Death Eaters, her sparkling laughter drifting through the room in sharp contrast to the cold smile that graced her features. Her floor length, sky blue robes, looked frightfully out of place among the deep black that the others were wearing.

Draco flinched as he watched her lean fingers gently caress the arm of a man he didn’t recognise, the way his mother lilted towards him making him feel sick. A slight cough from behind Draco made his mother spin to face him, her smile faltering for a brief moment as she glimpsed his icy expression.

“Draco!” She swooped towards him, resting a hand gently on his shoulder. Draco glared at the man stood fidgeting behind her and resisted the urge to shrug off her hand.

“Mother,” he replied coolly, directing his attention towards her. She frowned at him.

“Draco, this is a momentous occasion. I’d appreciate at least some semblance of joy to be displayed on my only son’s face.”

Blaise cleared his throat. “I’m afraid we’re not even clear what this ‘momentous occasion’ actually is, Mrs Malfoy.”

Narcissa turned her smile on Blaise. “Isn’t it obvious, Blaise?” She waved a hand over the hall, encompassing the bustling minions. Draco raised an eyebrow as he steadily stared at her. “We’re launching a war.”

Draco stared at her. “Right now?” he asked, knowing he sounded idiotic but finding himself unable to say anything else.

His mother laughed prettily and waved her hand disdainfully, steering her son and his friend through the entrance hall into the corridor that led to Lucius’ study. “Of course not, Draco dear, don’t be silly.” Draco stifled the sigh of relief that nearly fled him. “We’re at least going to wait until after dinner.”

Both boys froze on the red plush carpet, staring at Narcissa in shock. Draco opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by a shout of; “Blaise!”

Narcissa smiled beatifically and both boys span to face the source of the voice. Blaise’s face lit up gleefully at the sight of his father barrelling down the hallway.

Draco repressed the twinge of jealousy he felt in his gut at the sight of Sicarus Zabini embracing his son fiercely and looking at him with something that Draco presumed was pride.

“Father!” Blaise exclaimed, leaning into his father’s embrace. Draco averted his eyes, aware that his mother was watching him carefully.

Draco tried to tune out the conversation, concentrating instead on a painting of one of his ancestors hanging just behind Blaise’s head that was making a very disapproving face at this display of familial emotion. Upon realising that Draco was looking at him, the painting, he thought the sour old man was his great-great-great uncle, decided to go back to posturing like a proper Malfoy portrait. Meaning that he stuck his nose in the air and sniffed disdainfully down at anyone who ambled by him.

Draco rolled his eyes and realised that the other members of the hallway were staring at him expectantly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” Draco said politely.

Blaise snickered behind his hand causing both parents to shoot their respective offspring disapproving glances.

“Mr. Zabini was just asking if you were prepared for your meeting with the Dark Lord?” Narcissa supplied helpfully, laying an arm over Draco’s shoulders and squeezing just a little bit too hard.

Suppressing the grimace on his face, Draco looked at Sicarus levelly. “It’s easy to be prepared to do something you’ve been planning to do all your life.”

“True,” murmured Blaise, his eyes fixed on Draco. “But you’re a little nervous though, right?” The question was slightly hopeful and Draco didn’t miss the sympathetic glance shot Blaise’s way from his father.

His mother’s fingers digging into his shoulders Draco answered. “Not in the slightest.” Her fingers tightened as Draco stared at Blaise, willing his friend to see the message in his eyes.

The message that he wasn’t nervous. That he was terrified.

Blaise gave a small nod before turning to his father and Narcissa. “Where is it that we’ll be meeting the Dark Lord?”

Narcissa smiled serenely and gestured to the heavy oak door a few feet away. “Right there.”

Furrowing his brow in confusion Draco asked; “In Father’s study? But surely…”

His mother laughed, a sound filled with no humour. “Really, Draco. You live here your entire life and you don’t think we have enough wards and charms to stop the whole of the Ministry trying to find us?”

Blaise’s face registered shock as he glanced back up the hallway to the room full of war preparations though Draco merely nodded in response. It made sense and, if anything, he was just annoyed that he had never thought of it himself.

Narcissa suddenly clapped her hands together causing a nervous Blaise to jump, only settled by his father’s hand heavy on his shoulder. “It is time, do you not think?”

Staring at his cool and composed mother gesturing for her son to go into a room and meet the most evil creature on Earth Draco was struck by the juxtaposition of the image against the one his mind preferred to picture. One of a redhead who’d left him on the East Tower, tears streaming down her face.

Blinking away the picture that was taking his mind to a more welcome and yet completely inappropriate places Draco followed his mother through the heavy oak doors.

*

Strangely when Draco first walked through the doors of his fathers study his first instinct was to sneak in. He felt rather than heard Blaise giggle behind him and guessed that he was having the same thought.

Draco could barely recall a childhood memory that had him standing in this room after being invited in. Whenever Lucius Malfoy had decided to discipline him he’d been yelled at and reprimanded in his own room, his father liking the memory of the punishment to be ever present around Draco, obviously thinking that the bruises weren’t reminder enough.

It was far more common for Draco to be in the study after sneaking in with Blaise as one of their childhood pastimes. They’d been endlessly amused by the variety of strange objects and dark arts books that littered the shelves of the ancient bookcase. Even the accident where Blaise ended up with his mouth fused shut, because he’d decided it was a good idea to read aloud a passage of one of the books, hadn’t slaked their curiosity.

The study that Draco was stood in now was, just like the entrance hall, so removed from the familiar environment that he had been expecting that Draco felt his stomach flip.

The room was bare, the ancient bookcase gone, leaving stone walls with guttering candles perched against them. The heavy desk that Draco had rifled through looking for interesting things to play with was gone, the space it used to occupy a palpable loss in the now empty room.

The loss of furniture wasn’t what made Draco nearly recoil in horror, his shoulder brushing into Blaise.

The Dark Lord stood in the centre of the room. His most trusted advisors circled him, with Lucius sparing a slight nod for Draco.

“Hello Draco, Blaise,” The Dark Lord’s rasping tone echoed across the room and Draco felt his throat go dry.

Serpentine red eyes stared at him as long, inhuman fingers reached out, grasping for his hand. Trying not to cower Draco hesitantly accepted the hand, repressing the wince that threatened at the feel of the sandpaper-like skin against his palm. “My Lord,” he spluttered out, bowing down to avoid having to look into the crimson depths of his eyes.

His hand having been released Draco straightened, his eyes searching out his father who showed no sign of anything on his face. He heard Blaise repeating the same performance beside him but Draco couldn’t tear his eyes away from his father.

Cool features stared back and Draco was reminded again of how similar they were in looks. The same white-blonde hair, the same cool grey eyes, the same sharp features. The same impassive mask. Exploring his father’s face for any sign of how he felt about his only son, Draco found none.

For an instant Draco thought he might do something that he had sworn he would never do again. He though he might cry. Bitter resentment flowed through him. He was better that his father. And yet he still searched for the same acceptance from the cold man that he always had.

Staring at Lucius Malfoy, Draco felt as though he was being given a glimpse into what his future could hold. A place at the side of the man who would be the ruler of the Wizarding world. A strong, proud position as a man who had never given up on his Malfoy heritage. And, also, apparently Draco was going to have great hair.

Dragging his eyes away from the figure of his father, from the image of his future, Draco realised that the Dark Lord had continued talking. Wincing inwardly and imagining that he should probably pay more attention Draco tuned himself back into the conversation to hear the last words of what had, apparently, been quite a long speech.

“….and tonight we shall launch our first attack,” the Dark Lord smiled at the room, giving Draco the urge to go and find a mouse to throw into his snake-like slit. Almost giggling at the image, all amusement was wiped from Draco’s mind the instant the next words left the Dark Lord’s mouth. “Against Diagon Alley.”

*

When he was seven Draco had gotten lost amongst the bustling crowds of the popular shopping district. He distinctly remembered not caring that much at all and believing that he was on a great adventure. Until he began to get hungry that is. Then Draco had gone and cried to one of the shop holders and they had hurriedly found his parents, handing him over with a small smile for the lost boy and a nervous glance at his parents.

From his position at the top of the street, Blaise by his side, wand in hand and cool steel against his belt, Draco could see the small shop that he’d ran into nearly ten years ago. He hoped that the owner had gone out for the evening.

The silence around his ears was unnerving, the only sound from the men clustered around Draco their even breathing. Sounds of happiness, of people having a good time, drifted up to Draco from the street below causing him to wince.

He glanced at Blaise, the mask that covered his face hiding his features from Draco’s view. He watched Blaise’s hand clench and unclench around the wand in his hand and Draco realised that his own fingers were doing the same.

“He doesn’t look human,” Draco felt the whisper leave his lips even as he desperately tried to take the words back.

Blaise started, lost in his own thoughts and not expecting a disruption. “But think how far he was come.” Awe tinged his words. “He is our master, Draco. You remember that, don’t you?”

“I’m stood here.”

“Are you?” Blaise asked.

Draco didn’t reply, turning back to the street, mentally running over curses and hexes in his head, obstinately refusing to recall the Unforgivables. The call went up, the sound of the yell sending a shiver down Draco’s spine as he began his descent into the town, his wand raised in front of him.

It was chaos. Green flashes interspersed with screams and fires raged around him as he dodged his own side’s curses. Draco heard his own voice yelling every curse he could think off that didn’t necessarily result in death, the words rattling off his tongue as he wove his way through the smoke and pulsing mass of bodies.

He cursed himself for his weakness whilst he prayed that his father couldn’t hear his yells. Draco tried to yell the curse he knew he would need to say to gain his place amongst the Dark Lord’s ranks, but his resolve kept failing after the first syllable, a lesser, less lethal curse taking it’s place.

Stumbling forward Draco felt his knees give away as he stumbled over a man lying in the street. Cursing heavily, Draco twisted his body and found himself inches away from dead, unseeing eyes.

There was no blood on the body, it’s mouth open in an eternal scream. Draco felt his stomach heave. It was the first body he’d allowed himself to look at.

He stared at the man’s contorted features, trying to make his body move from his prone position on the cobbles but it was no use. He was transfixed by the very real evidence of death in front of him, the only consolation running through his mind was that he knew he couldn’t have been the instigator of this man’s death. Though perhaps it was Blaise or his own father who had been his murderer.

Draco would have stayed like that forever if it wasn’t for the strange foreboding that overcame him, causing him to turn and see the wizard above him, wand outstretched, mouth forming words that Draco knew were very unlikely to be a friendly hello.

Acting purely on instinct Draco rolled out of the way, the flash of the curse burning the pavement he’d been lying on moments before. The man’s face screwed up in an expression of pure hate that made Draco’s breath catch even as he was blindly grasping for his wand.

As though in slow motion he watched the wizard raise his wand and re-aim and Draco, his hand hitting the pavement in agitation as he searched for his wand, lunged forward, the dagger on his belt leaping into his hand before he even realised what he was doing.

The slick, wet sound that the dagger made as it sliced through the man’s throat would reverberate in Draco’s ears as he staggered to the edge of the street, the dagger, dripping blood, clasped loosely in his hand. He ripped the mask from his face taking deep, shuddering gasps that did nothing to ease the heavy weight that had settled on his chest, and only made him cough because of the smoke that still riddled the air.

He glanced behind him and let the dagger fall from nerveless fingers as he glimpsed the lump in the smoke that could only be the man he just murdered. Draco imagined he could make out every anguished feature, the sound of the man’s flesh giving way repeating over and over and over in his mind.

This time he did throw up.

*

Lucius found him there some time later, his son’s glassy eyes staring out into the body riddled street. Draco felt his father approach him and tried to move his eyes away from the mass of bodies lying tangled on the cobbles.

“We have to get moving,” Lucius said, his tone void of any sentiment. Draco looked up at him, unseeing.

“Did we win?” He asked.

Lucius smiled viciously, yanking his son up by the arm and dragging him away. “Of course.”

“Good,” said Draco distantly, “because I think I killed some people. And I’d hate it to be for nothing.”

“It is never for nothing when it is in service of the Dark Lord, remember that, Draco.”

Draco nodded, his head feeling disconnected to the rest of his body. He felt a tug in his navel unlike the one he was accustomed to from Portkey, and nearly threw up again at the unexpected sensation. He blinked around his surroundings for a moment, taking in the happy looking Death Eaters. An oxymoron, his snide inner voice commented before his less coherent part of his mind worked out that he was back in the manor.

He gazed owlishly up at his father, registering that he had apparated with him. Lucius smiled and for the first time in his life, Draco recognised pride in his father’s expression. “You did well tonight, Draco.”

Well, I killed someone, thought Draco, bitterly. And his father now loved him enough to apparate with him, something Draco could never recall his father doing with him before. “And so it is time for your final test.”

At the word ‘test’ Draco’s mind and body seemed to fall into sync and he stood up straight, noticing that his father had been leading him back to the study.

He leaned away from his father and began to walk steadily on his own, trying to resist the urge to grasp his left forearm in a childish display of rebellion. Draco dropped his hand away as he was led into the room.

Blaise was stood there with his father, his features pale and drawn, the dark circles under his eyes giving him a haunted expression. Piercing blue eyes met his and Draco suddenly remembered their conversation before the descent into the town.

Blaise looked away, his fingers gently brushing the wand in hand, his attention fixated on the man stood before them.

“Ah, my young followers,” the Dark Lord’s dry hiss washed over Draco. “You performed well in my little battle and now there is but one more thing I ask of you.” He paused and seemed to eagerly await their reaction.

“Anything you wish, Master,” the words came form both boys and Draco was completely unsurprised, their training growing up had been practically identical.

Their Master smiled a slow, feral grin and motioned to two of his Death Eaters to retrieve something. “Then this is your final test.” Screaming filled the room as the two men reappeared, their arms full of shrieking, writhing girls. The Dark Lord looked at both boys and gestured at the girls. “Kill them.”

Draco felt his world narrow down to just him and his chosen victim. He raised his wand, the words on his lips ready to be said just as she was pushed fully into the firelight. The words died in his throat as the flames flickered off her blazing red hair.

For one sickening long moment Draco felt as though his heart was shattering into pieces on the stone beneath his feet. The girl who was screaming, the girl who he was meant to kill, the girl with a shock of red hair was Ginny. His Ginny.

And then she moved her head and Draco felt the world stop spinning, felt his heart start beating again because it wasn’t her. The features were too angular, the face a couple of years too old.

But she still had red hair. And she still bore a striking resemblance to Ginny if only because of the vividness of the colour. He tightened his grip on his wand, his heart jack hammering madly. He stared down at the girl, not seeing sharp cheekbones and vivid green eyes, but softly rounded features and dark brown irises.

“Blaise, kill.” The order was short and sharp and Draco barely glanced at his best friend, the malevolent expression and the angry coldness of his normally bright blue eyes, making him turn away quickly. Blaise’s victim’s scream was mercilessly short, Draco squeezing his eyes shut against the flash of green light.

Out of the corner of his eye, still busy staring at the redhead, Draco saw the Dark Lord slither forward and reach out his hand for Blaise’s arm. Blaise’s hiss of pain as the Mark was burned into his forearm was masked by the sound of the dead body being dragged from the room, her green, sightless eyes giving Draco no pleasure, however similar they were to Potter’s.

Blaise inclined his head in reverence, though Draco could see the clench of his jaw as he tried not to cry out in pain.

“Draco,” the word slithered out of his mouth, “Lucius’ son.” A statement that Draco knew held unspeakable expectation. He gestured with his inhuman hand at the sobbing girl. “Kill.”

His hand trembling, Draco looked down at the girl, her mouth opening in a silent plea as tears ran down her cheeks. She looked so like Ginny, the tears making her close her eyes, letting Draco imagine a different colour under the eyelids. Her captor yanked her head back roughly, the girl’s squeal of pain muffled by the hand that he clamped over her mouth. Her red hair glinted in the firelight.

“No,” gasped out Draco, his resolve failing, his wand arm falling to his side as he worked to drag each breath into his lungs. “No.”

A stunned silence filled the room only broken by what sounded like a choked gasp from the direction of Lucius. Draco managed to glance at Blaise, his eyes pale and huge in his shocked face. A glance at the Dark Lord, Voldermort, he thought rebelliously, showed anger written into every line of his merciless face.

Voldermort started forward and a self-preservation instinct that Draco didn’t even know he processed seemed to kick in and he dropped to the floor on his knees, head bowed forward in subjugation. “I am sorry my Master,” he stuttered, wrapping his arms around himself after depositing his wand on the floor in front of him. “I am not yet worthy to be in your service.”

“Worthy?” Queried Voldermort, his curious tone tinged with malice. “You passed all the tests did you not, young Malfoy?”

Think, Draco yelled at his brain. “Yes, Master,” he loves himself, work with that, “But I do not think that I am ready to serve in such an esteemable position for one as great as you.”

Silence reigned through the room and Draco imagined that they could hear the furious beating of his heart. A dry, brittle laugh echoed through the study. “Rise, Draco.”

Draco followed the instruction, willing his legs to not tremble beneath him. Voldermort stared at him, calculating. “It is well that you told me of this now,” Draco restrained himself from breathing a sigh of relief. Voldermort turned to Lucius. “I hope that one day your son will be able to join my ranks,” Lucius inclined his head as his Master turned back to his son.

“Until then,” A hand reached out to trace Draco’s cheek, the shudder that ran through Draco’s body apparently not noticed by the dark wizard in front of him. “You shall serve me in any way that I wish you to.” The hand left his cheek, trailing a path down his neck until one wickedly curved nail was pressing into the smooth column of Draco’s throat. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, Master,” Draco said lowly, his Adam’s apple bobbing perilously near the razor sharp nail.

Voldermort released him, something akin to satisfaction on his face. “Good,” he waved a hand at the assembled people, “You may go.”

Draco felt his father grip his arm, his strong fingers bruising Draco’s skin as he was dragged from the room, the cold eyes of Lucius Malfoy filling Draco with foreboding.

*

Draco dragged his feet over expensive carpets as he was yanked through the house. Tugging open the door to Draco’s bedroom Lucius threw his son through the door, Draco hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Tiredly raising his head from his slouched position on the floor Draco watched his father advance on him, cold fury radiating from every hard line of his face. He snarled at Draco and leant to grab his arm tossing him against the wall as though he were a rag doll.

One cold hand wrapped around Draco’s throat, the rings on his fingers pressing into the delicate skin. He felt his father’s signet ring pressing into his throat and Draco instinctively wrapped his fingers around the Malfoy ring that lay on his own hand, given to each heir when they reached their tenth birthday, when people needed to know who they would soon follow. The ring acted as a soothing influence, reminding him of the power that he possessed by merely being a Malfoy, regardless of which wizard he followed in this war.

“I should disown you,” the words were whispered silkily into his ear, the only hint of malice coming from the tightening fingers around his throat.

“Father…” Draco tried to gasp out, the plea cut off by the ever-tightening fingers. Draco felt his vision start to blur, colours dancing in front of his eyes as blackness started to invade all of them.

“You embarrassed me.” The words sounded far away, Draco’s head starting to lilt down onto his chest. “But I will let you go.”

The hand was removed from his throat and Draco fell to the floor, his own hands coming to massage the sore skin as he gasped for breath.

“My Master seems to have decided you are still useful,” Lucius cocked his head, considering, a grimace of distaste on his face, “though I cannot imagine why.” He glared down at his son, “You are pathetic,” each word was punctuated by a kick to the ribs that had Draco writhing in agony, “and you are barely fit to be my son.”

Lucius took a step back, one last kick aimed at Draco’s midsection for good measure. “I thought I had trained you better.” He leant down and grabbed Draco’s wrist, tracing the faint scar that lay there. Scowling down he dropped the wrist back roughly, where Draco cradled it against his body. “Obviously not.” Looking down at Draco as though he were a piece of rubbish he tossed a bag from his robe pocket onto the floor next to his son. “Go back to Hogwarts.”

Watching his father sweep from the room Draco was suddenly desperate for the pride that he had seen for a few moments in his father’s eyes to be restored. Spitting out blood onto the rich carpet Draco dragged himself to the fireplace, gripping the bag of floo powder as he crawled. Gasping out his destination he tumbled into the flames, staying conscious only long enough to see Pansy’s shocked face before he fell onto the floor of the Slytherin common room.

*

It was a hazy world that Draco woke up to the following morning. He blinked a few times and took a few shuddering breathes trying to make the bedroom come back into a clearer focus. As soon as the image solidified Draco groaned and flopped his head back against the pillow.

Pansy and Blaise stood in the room, one obviously concerned and the other with an inscrutable expression on his face. Pansy breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Draco’s eyelids flutter and she hurried over, placing a cool palm against his forehead.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, leaning over to adjust his bedclothes.

Draco swatted her hands away, mumbling a quick “Bleugh.”

Raising one perfectly proportioned eyebrow Pansy asked; “What? No witty comment?”

“What? No asking of how this happened?” Draco retorted, his eyes flicking to Blaise, who hadn’t moved from his leaning position against the far wall.

Pansy followed his eyes and stepped back, smoothing the front of her robes down with suddenly fidgety hands. “We know your father, Draco.”

Draco darted a glance at her, his hand rushing to his neck. Pansy frowned as she saw the action, leaning forward to grab his hand and shake her head in disapproval.

“I imagine he wasn’t very happy,” Blaise’s impassive voice made Pansy step away again, her arms wrapping around herself. She glanced nervously between the two boys who had began to stare at each other.

“I’ll go tell the others Draco’s all right, shall I?” She asked, peevishly, already knowing that this was a conversation she wasn’t going to be allowed to partake in.

“That might be best,” Draco agreed, his eyes never leaving Blaise. With an exasperated sigh Pansy strode from the room, pausing to jab a finger at Blaise’s chest in warning.

Blaise tilted his head to watch her leave, not moving till the door fell shut with a loud snick. He turned back to the bed then, striding over the room until he was stood, staring down at Draco, his expression unreadable.

“How’s your arm?” Draco asked innocently, pulling himself up onto his elbows to regard Blaise.

Blaise laughed harshly. “I honestly thought that was something I’d be able to ask you today as well, Draco.”

“I wasn’t good enough,” Draco said, falling back on what was becoming the old excuse, though he knew that Blaise, of everyone, was unlikely to accept it.

Snarling Blaise grabbed Draco’s wrist, shoving it up at Draco until the thin scar that lay across his wrist was directly in his vision. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I got this scar a long time ago, Blaise,” Draco said, trying to keep his voice even.

Blaise pushed Draco’s arm away, stepping away from the bed and running a hand raggedly through his hair. He stared down at Draco, his expression suddenly sad. “And you were ready then.”

“Blaise…”

“No,” Blaise held up a hand to stop him, “don’t tell me, Draco.” He smiled ruefully. “If I know anything, I have to do something.”

Draco watched him for a moment and then slowly nodded. “All right.”

They stared at each other for a moment longer and then Blaise swept from the room, his hand clamped fiercely over his left forearm.

Pansy appeared in the doorway as he left, her features schooled into an emotionless mask. “So you’re not a Death Eater?” A wry smile tugged at her lips and Draco chortled out loud.

“Nope,” he said, patting the bed to indicate she should take a seat. “I suppose you’re happy.”

Pansy gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, nudging Draco to move over further. “Why would I be happy?”

“I’m in less danger,” Draco said carefully, scrutinising her face.

Pansy laughed bitterly. “My Mother wasn’t a Death Eater.”

Draco froze, the topic of conversation not one he was expecting. “Pansy,” he began slowly, aware of the untread emotional territory they were veering into. “You never said what happened with your Mother.”

Pansy looked as though she’d been punched in the stomach, her hands flying to the sheets in front of her which she slowly began to twist. Suddenly she paused, taking a deep breath and tilting her head away from Draco. When she turned to him again she had a wide smile plastered on her face, though her eyes still glistened with unshed tears.

“It doesn’t matter,” she patted his arm as though he were a child, “what matters is that you turned down the opportunity to be a Death Eater.” She raised an eyebrow and stared at him curiously.

“I wasn’t ready,” Draco said, fully aware that he sounded like a petulant child.

Pansy laughed. “Sure,” she said, shooting him a disbelieving look.

“Really!” Draco protested.

“You couldn’t kill, could you?” Pansy laughed, humour lacing her voice.

Draco’s expression darkened. “Oh, I could kill.”

“Then why are you not…”

Draco stared at her, remembering the revered Parkinson line, remembering the way that his Mother had always wanted him to marry this girl and remembering the funeral of her mother where she had stood, not crying, merely staring, stony-faced, at her father.

“Pansy.” She stared down at him for a moment and then stood from the bed.

“I suppose we all have secrets, don’t we, Draco?”

“I suppose we do, dear Pansy.”

She cocked her head and regarded him. “Would you tell me yours if I told you mine?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Would you tell me yours, Pansy?”

She smiled then. “I trust you with my life, Draco Malfoy,” she paused and laughed, “just not with my secrets.”

Pansy walked forward and brushed the hair back from Draco’s forehead. “Will you stop messing with my hair?” Draco protested, batting at her hands.

Not moving her hands, Pansy dropped a kiss on Draco’s forehead. “You know that I always loved my Father more than anyone, don’t you, Draco?”

Draco sighed. “You were always a little Daddy’s Girl if that’s what you mean.”

“Yes, well,” Pansy said, annoyed. “You’ll know then that I generally disregarded everything my Mother would say?”

“Except for that thing where she said you looked good in pink and that marvellous cinnamon biscuit recipe.”

“Well, there was one other thing that I remember her saying.”

“Please tell me this isn’t a hair charm.”

Pansy leaned back from the bed and regarded Draco seriously. “Always follow your heart.”

Draco managed a laugh. “Sound’s slightly cliché.”

Pansy shrugged and gave a melancholy grin. “Seems to work though.”

She patted his head and he scowled up at her. “Be down in time for dinner, okay?”

She ran a hand gently over his head and then walked from the room leaving Draco alone to once again admire the canopy of his bed.

*

Draco had always liked to make dramatic entrances but even he wasn’t comfortable when he stepped through the door to the Great Hall and the eye of every Slytherin in the room span towards him.

A quick glance at the Gryfinndor table made his heart lurch as he saw the familiar flash of red and then he was left facing the table that he had ruled over for so many years. Crabbe and Goyle paused for a moment in their eating and looked up, their expressions as insipid as normal.

With a glance at Blaise that didn’t go unnoticed by Draco, Crabbe pulled out the chair next to him and inclined his head for Draco to sit. Striding over, Draco dropped into the seat opposite Blaise. Teddy, on his other side, shot them both fearful glances.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Really Teddy, grow a backbone. I’m not going to chuck a plate of Yorkshire pudding at Draco’s head or anything.” He caught Draco’s eye and flashed a quick grin.

“Of course not,” Draco paused, considering, “you’d at least use the plate of roast beef.”

Teddy chuckled. “Personally I was expecting hexes.”

“Well apparently, Draco’s not good enough with a wand,” Blaise said, the under-lying tone of his words not lost on anyone at the table.

Draco shrugged, matter-of-factedly, checking out of the corner of his eye that all the teachers were assembled. “Apparently not.”

“I just find that so hard to believe.”

Draco stared him straight in the eye. “Then you didn’t see me that time in Diagon Alley.”

Pansy coughed. “Someone hexed you, did they?” She said pointedly, her eyes telling the two boys to shut up before any of the teachers happened to wander by.

Blaise shot her a look. “Fine,” he relented, “I suppose that we can discuss our numerous duels later.”

Pansy breathed a sigh of relief and Draco returned to his food, the sight of the roast dinner making him realise he wasn’t hungry in the slightest. He glanced around the hall, none of the other students appeared to have noticed the little argument that he’d just had though the Gryfinndors looked just as suspicious of them as normal.

And one Gryfinndor in particular was pointedly not looking over at the Slytherin table. Draco imagined that she knew what he had been planning on doing that weekend and the twist of his stomach at the idea that Ginny might imagine he was a Death Eater was another unexpected event that morning.

He watched her stand up and mutter something to that camera happy friend of hers as she practically raced from the hall. Draco stood suddenly, causing Crabbe to spit his pumpkin juice out in surprise. “Draco?” Blaise asked curiously as though he was worried about his mental condition.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Draco said the first thing that popped in his head, his words causing both of Blaise’s eyebrows to shoot up and Pansy to let loose a giggle.

“Well, that’s not very Malfoy-esque is it?” she said, her loud giggles causing the students of the other tables to take notice of the scene.

“Well sometimes even Malfoys need to pee,” Draco explained over his shoulder as he dashed from the hall.

*

He saw the red hair before anything, his mind flashing back to the evening in his father’s study. She was scrunched up against a wall, her knees drawn up to her face, obscuring her features. For an instant it was the opposite of his initiation, Draco could imagine that the girl in front of him wasn’t Ginny Weasley but the nameless victim that he hadn’t the nerve to kill but who was most assuredly dead by now.

Draco stilled himself with a hand against the wall, using his free hand to rub his eyes fiercely. Composing himself he moved forward silently until he was crouched in front of the still girl.

“Ginny?” he asked, timidly.

She started and tried to dart back against the wall, one hand clasped over her heart. “Draco,” she replied coolly.

“What are you doing down here?” Draco asked, a scant half metre from her face.

“Why did you follow me down here?”

“I wanted the answer to that question.”

Ginny laughed harshly. “You can’t just answer me honestly, can you?” She scowled at him and regarded him with disgust. “I suppose you really are a Death Eater.”

Still scowling Ginny began to stand until Draco gripped her wrist and pulled her back down. “Get off me!” Ginny yelled, trying to break his grip. Draco slowly raised a finger to her lips and she fell silent, staring into his solemn eyes.

Realising her, Draco sat back on his heels and slowly rolled the sleeve of his robe up, Ginny’s eyes growing into more perfect circles as each inch of pale skin was revealed.

Silently, his breathing erratic, Draco raised his arm to Ginny revealing the unblemished skin of his left forearm.

Draco let his head fall back against the cool wall watching Ginny walk away from him for the second time in his life. And it hurt just as bad as the last time.

Her parting words echoed around the cold corridor even as she disappeared from view behind the corner. “It’s not over, is it?”

His lack of reply had been answer enough for her, shoving him back against the wall and running away, though this time her cheeks were dry. Draco shivered and hugged himself, his silvery blonde head shining against the dark black of his robes.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected. Draco had known that there was never really any chance that she would ever even speak to him again, let alone let him do far more interesting, illegal in several countries, things to her.

But he’d caught a glimpse of that red hair and suddenly he couldn’t help remembering how her lips felt under his, how her body moulded against him, how she moaned as he’d nipped her pulse point. Draco balled his hands into fists and ineffectually bashed the floor. Because when he remembered that he always forgot the most important thing about their ‘relationship’.

They were on opposite sides of a war.

A war he wasn’t even sure he wanted to fight in.

*

Life had become routine without the promise of Death Eater-dom on the horizon. There were no daydreams involving standing over a heap of Muggle bodies, Potter’s bloody glasses clasped in his hand, the Dark Lord grinning next to him, the Quidditch World Cup supported between them.

Draco couldn’t even have the daydream that involved the whipped cream and Ginny anymore as all that succeeding in doing was make his heart ache and left him with a problem he was fairly sure that Pansy and Millicent would punch him for if he asked for help. And he and Blaise just weren’t that close.

Though, of course, Draco mused, his die-Potter-die daydream was certainly due a good overhaul. There just wasn’t something satisfying enough anymore about the scenario where he pushed him off his broomstick, grabbed the snitch and then proceeding to stab him repeatedly with the pieces of broken broomstick making him never be able to see, speak, have children or, really, ever breath again.

Draco decided that adding Potter being lowered into a pit full of giant man-eating Runespoor might help. Draco grinned to himself as he lay on the couch in the common room, That would do.

Ever since their argument, or as Draco had come to call it ‘the time that could have been better spent getting off with each other’, Ginny had firmly entrenched herself in the protective circle of her Gryfinndor housemates. The sight of her giggling with Potter in the hall had made Draco want to wrench her head off and bash it against Potter’s face until his glasses were firmly embedded in his skull.

Luckily Draco had managed to restrain this urge and spent the better part of a week just thinking up ways he could hurt Potter. It also gave him time to ignore the fact that the constant gnawing ache in his stomach wasn’t entirely because of Ginny, a good healthy portion of fear was attributed to Voldermort’s uses for him.

Draco wasn’t a fool. He’d chosen not to become a Death Eater. Voldermort should have killed him. And yet he was just sat at school, occasionally doing homework and occasionally eating and sleeping. Draco couldn’t work out what it meant.

Though he was fairly sure it was bad.

He squinted into the fire trying to rouse himself from his comfortable slouch and go do his Potions homework when Blaise dropped into the armchair, fingering a long, slim envelope.

Draco dropped his head over the back of the arm and looked at Blaise who was staring into the fire, a slight frown marring his forehead. Draco considered asking him if he was all right and instantly decided against it. Things weren’t the same between them and Draco wasn’t the one who had a right to fix it.

“I got a letter from my Father,” Blaise’s voice filled the empty room and Draco stilled. The first move had been made.

“Full of good cheer, I hope?” Draco asked coolly, tilting his head so he was looking Blaise directly in the eye, right way up.

Blaise snorted, inelegantly. “Hardly,” he shifted forward so his elbows rested on his knees. “It contains orders.”

Turning his face away from Blaise and staring into the fire, again, Draco replied; “Well, you know what they say about orders.”

“That you have to follow them.”

The two boys stared into the flames, one dark head, one fair. Blaise casually threw the letter onto the fire, his eyes not moving from it’s blackening form. The white paper darkened and curled, slowly dissolving to nothing, Draco’s voice shattered the silence even though he was practically whispering.

“Or you die.”

*

“I never have understood how you are so terribly bad at this game.”

Crabbe shrugged, his massive shoulders shifting the heavy material of his dressing gown. He threw a card on the table and waited to see what Teddy would do. “I guess I just never really learnt it properly.”

Pansy glanced up from her book, peering at him from her lying position on the couch. “Vincent, we’ve tried to explain it to you a hundred times.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, shifting Pansy’s feet that were lying in his lap. “Well, I’m not volunteering for a hundred and one.”

Millicent laid her own cards on the table and fixed a determined expression on her face causing Teddy to groan. “Oh come on! I was winning!”

Shooting him a disgusted look, Millicent answered. “Of course you were winning. Vincent doesn’t know how to play.” She turned to Crabbe with a sweet smile. “Okay, the game is called ‘Go Plimpy”.

Draco nudged one of Pansy’s feet and she glanced up at him with a smile as he inclined his head to the pair at the card table. She smothered a giggle as she saw Millicent begin to grow exasperated and batted Draco lightly on the arm with her book, whispering hurriedly; “Be nice!”

Instead of Draco having to bite back the giggle that was threatening to erupt it disappeared entirely when the flames in the hearth changed colour and Blaise stepped into the room.

His clothes were filthy, his features tight and pale. He glanced round at them all and strode from the room. But not before Draco noticed the red stains covering his hands, only clear where his knuckles were gripping his wand painfully tight.

*

Hogwarts was used to a sort of placidity from the Slytherin table, the housemates that resided there generally less rambunctious than those that caused all the chaos at the other tables. But it was still slightly unnerving for the rest of the students when the population of the Slytherin table in the Great Hall was deathly silent.

Draco mechanically spooned his cereal into his mouth, carefully watching Blaise’s haunted eyes do a very thorough job of inspecting the top of the table. The younger years were shooting them nervous glances whilst the seventh years did their best to ignore them.

Swirling the cereal around the bowl, Draco contemplated whether to talk to Blaise. Glancing at his furious stabbing of his bacon made Draco hurriedly change his mind. He was certainly not a coward but that didn’t mean he had a Gryfinndoric death wish. Draco glanced across the hall at Ginny. She was safely ensconced in her little group of friends but Draco noticed, gleefully, that she was looking a little limp and kept shooting covert glances at him.

He caught her eye for a moment and she endearingly coloured even as Draco offered a small smile. She glared back at him and turned, intentionally, he was sure, to Potter and began to giggle and flip her hair all over him.

Draco dug his fingers into the table and scowled. The beating of owl’s wings disturbed his anger and the Daily Prophet was dropped into his cereal. Scowling again, this time at the owl, Draco irritably paid it and proceeded to do the normal drying charm. He flattened the paper out and began to read, absently noticing that Blaise had stopped eating.

The news of the attack was all over the front page, the picture of the hovering Dark Mark making him look up at Blaise. He was frozen, his eyes wide and fearful, his normally pale skin chalk-white.

“Blaise?” murmured Pansy. Blaise didn’t reply, just took a swig of his pumpkin juice, placed his knife and fork down and walked out of the room. A number of heads swivelled to follow him and Draco noticed the angry glare of Potter and Weasley that followed his friend out of the hall. He glanced across from Pansy and in unspoken agreement they returned to their meals for a minute, made a pretence of finishing and walked from the room.

*

When polite knocking failed to incite Blaise to open the door Draco pointed his wand at the lock and whispered; “Alohomora.” The door swung open revealing the boy’s bathroom.

Blaise was stood over the sink, his hands prone underneath the running water, his eyes fixed on the mirror in front of him. Pansy made a sort of choked sound and ran forward, her hand curling around Blaise’s upper arm. “Blaise?” she said, trying to make him look at her. He moved a fraction so that he was looking at her and then his gaze slid down to his hands.

The noise that issued from his throat reminded Draco of the strangled cries of the murdered animals and then Blaise was frantically washing his hands, knocking Pansy’s arm away. “Blaise?” Pansy tried again. She grabbed his wrist and he threw her away violently, her body hitting the first stall.

Her shocked and injured expression galvanised Draco into action and he moved forward, grabbing Blaise and tossing him to the floor. “What are you doing?” he yelled. Blaise didn’t move from his position on the tiles, though his hands were still manically moving and scratching over each other.

“I need to wash my hands,” Blaise muttered, pulling himself up and putting his hands under the water again. The steam from the running water fogged the mirror and Draco watched in morbid fascination as the pale skin of Blaise’s hands began to turn red.

“Out, out damn spot,” murmured Pansy. Draco turned to look at her, she was leaning heavily against the stall, her hands splayed against the wood, her hair loose from it’s usual ponytail and her blue eyes large and haunted in her small face.

Draco looked back at Blaise. He didn’t seem to have registered her, his attention still fixated on the rhythmic cleaning of his hands, his face screwed up against the pain from the hot water. “What?” Draco asked Pansy tiredly, gently grabbing Blaise’s shoulder and moving him from the sink until he was leaning against the far wall, his burnt hands cradled in Draco’s cool palms.

“A Muggle playwright said it,” Pansy muttered, she was still staring straight ahead, much like Blaise, and Draco was beginning to think he’d wondered into St Mungo’s without realising it. “Mother used to say he was talking about guilt. Trying to get the blood out.”

Her eyes slid over to Blaise’s and two sets of startling blue eyes locked together. Blaise moved his hands away from Draco and held them close to his body. His eyes dropped back to the floor and he furrowed his brow. “I’m a good Death Eater.” His voice was like a small child’s, the tone pleading for someone to tell him that he was.

Pansy smiled through the tears that were running down her cheeks. Draco ran a hand through his hair. “Blaise, I somehow think that that may be an oxymoron.”

“I want to be a good Death Eater.” Blaise looked up at Draco and he was suddenly reminded of how, when they were little, Blaise had accidentally broken Draco’s toe when he’d dropped a statue of his Great-Aunt Millie on him during a game of catch. He’d looked at him with the same expression then, pleading for forgiveness. “They were Mudbloods.”

Draco closed his eyes slowly. “Fewer of them in the world, then. There’s your silver lining.” Blaise suddenly gripped Draco hard by the arm.

“They were normal wizards till I was told,” he spat out. “Wizards with wands and homes and hexes.”

Draco watched his friend’s anguished eyes and felt tears pricking the back of his eyes, the sensation uncommon for him. “Mudbloods?” murmured Pansy so quietly Draco wasn’t sure he heard her. He turned to see if she had spoken and realised that she had moved next to them.

Pansy looked up at Blaise and laid a hand on his face, tears running down her cheeks. Draco had never realised before how striking a couple they would make. He and Pansy had always been pushed together and he’d long known that their fair features would complement each other, but she and Blaise? Well, they were like him and Ginny. Opposites. The fair hair and the dark. But the same clear, blue eyes.

He moved to grasp her hand and she stepped away, a strangled sob coming from her throat. She stared at Blaise for a moment and then, without even glancing at Draco, she ran from the room. Blaise seemed to crumple as she left and he slid down the floor, holding his arms around his body.

Draco turned and sat next to him. Resting his head on his knees as he leant back against the cool tile wall. “Well this is fucked up, isn’t it?”

Blaise didn’t reply, just let his head fall back against the wall with a resounding thunk.

*

The days wore on and each time that an owl came to deliver a letter to Blaise, and each time he answered their summons, his eyes became a little more haunted, his steps a little more sluggish. Professor Snape had begun to watch Blaise carefully, his expression as outwardly worried as the potions master’s would ever be.

But Draco was still left alone and that meant that the gnawing in his stomach wasn’t getting any better. It just got worse with every new discovery of a Dark Mark.

He was meandering through the aisles of the library looking for some books for an extra potions assignment he was sure Snape had given him just to taken his mind off things when a surprisingly strong arm shot out and yanked him into a alcove.

Sneezing at the dust that was hovering around them Draco observed Ginny irritably. “What?” he said, wafting his hand to clear the dust.

She stood with her hands on her hips and her expression stormy. “What do you know about these attacks?”

Draco froze and stared at her, making his usual cool mask fall into place. “You mean the attacks of the rampaging Hippogriffs in Outer Mongolia, I presume?”

“Draco,” she said, exasperatedly, running her hands over her face.

“Because I hear they’re because of a dead rat shortage.”

“Draco!” she yelled angrily and then, her voice softening; “Please.”

“Why would I tell you?” Draco asked, pragmatically.

She looked up at him with wide brown eyes, sidling closer she ran a finger down his cheek. “Because…” she whispered, her face inches from his.

Draco growled and pushed her away. She grinned sheepishly as she hit the far shelf and shrugged. “Worth a try.”

Draco shook his head. “I can’t believe you’d try that.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of Draco. “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you’re not proud of me for that.”

A grin tugged at the edge of Draco’s mouth. “Maybe a little proud.”

She sighed and folded her arms. “You can’t tell me anything?”

Draco looked her in the eyes and said seriously; “I’m not involved.”

She sighed and Draco thought that he could see the relief flood through her. It made him absurdly angry because he had been so close, so close, to being involved. He had been so close to being Blaise. But her smiling face and relaxed body made him not want to say anything. He was angry at her but that didn’t mean that he didn’t want her to look like that for him again.

“Good,” she was saying, “because I was so worried…”

“What the Hell is going on here?” The angry voice interrupted Ginny and they both turned, eyes fearful on Ginny’s part and vaguely disinterested on Draco’s, to look at the three people stood in the doorway.

Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.

All of whom looked seriously pissed off.

*

Weasley advanced on Draco with the sort of fierce determination that Draco was used to seeing on Potter’s face as they squared off for the snitch.

“I repeat,” said Potter dangerously from behind him, “What the Hell is going on here?”

Draco shrugged and leaned nonchalantly back against one of the shelves. “Well, let’s see,” he paused and looked around, feigning surprise he exclaimed; “My God! I’m in a library! Could I possible be looking for one of those things, now what are they called,” he clicked his fingers; “ah yes, a book.”

Weasley scowled. “And what the Hell is Ginny doing here?”

Rolling her eyes, Ginny walked forward to intercept her advancing brother. “Really, Ron. Did it ever occur to you that I was looking for a book, too?”

Granger piped up at this point. “But why are you back here for books? These are all old editions.”

Draco scowled at her but was cut off from answering by Ginny. “I’m doing an essay for History of Magic. These old editions are actually useful to me.” The lie slid off her tongue and Draco found himself impressed.

Granger looked satisfied with the answer and gripped Ginny by the elbow. “Oh, there are better ones than these. I’ll show you.”

“Ron, Harry,” Ginny said, turning back.

“We’ll be there in a minute, Gin,” said Ron, staring at Draco, “Just go on ahead.”

Ginny let out an exasperated breath. “Ron, really…”

“Ginny, let’s just go.” Ginny threw one last desperate look back as Granger drew her away and so Draco saw her eyebrows knit together as Granger whispered to her, “Just stay away from Malfoy, Ginny. He’s bad news.”

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes and concentrated on the two scowling boys advancing on him. His hand instinctively flexed by his wand and so Draco was surprised when, instead of hexing him, Ron grabbed him by the front of the robes and hauled him into the shelf.

Draco affected a look of pure nonchalance and decided against showing Potter and Weasley that his training had left him more than able to deal with two underage wizards in hand to hand combat.

“Stay away from my family, Malfoy,” Weasley whispered threateningly into his ear, “If you ever lay one Death Eater hand on my little sister I swear to Merlin I’ll…”

The sentence trailed off and Draco couldn’t help but chime in. “You’ll what? Bring the popcorn?”

Weasley’s face went the same red as Ginny’s, though Draco thought it less endearing and only Potter’s arm stopped him from shoving Draco’s head through the musty old books.

Weasley let him go with a look of pure disgust etched on his face. Draco stood and brushed his robes off, glancing up at Potter. “What, nothing to add?”

Potter shrugged. “I think Ron said it all.”

Draco grinned evilly and said; “Oh, so you’re going to bring the drinks?” Before Weasley had regained enough sense to punch him, Draco had moved out of the aisle and was ambling through the library, a complacent look upon his face.

*

Draco dropped into the seat by the fire in the common room, mulling over the incident in the library. It just solidified everything that he’d ever thought about him and Ginny. There was no way that they could ever be together.

He sighed wistfully, remembering the feel of her close to him again. For perhaps the millionth time Draco found himself wishing that things would be different.

“What’s this I hear about an incident in the library?”

Pansy’s accusing voice announced her arrival as she sat opposite Draco and fixed him with a penetrating glare.

Draco blinked guilelessly. “Incident in the library? Well, there was this thing where one of the books gave me a paper cut. Atrocious.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “You should try and not argue with them, you know.”

Staring steadily at her, Draco responded; “And you should talk to Blaise.”

He watched her body freeze and her eyes become shuttered. “I don’t see what that has to do with you getting into arguments with angry Gryfinndors.”

Shrugging, Draco didn’t move his eyes away from her. “Absolutely nothing.”

She regarded him icily and crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair. “Then I don’t see why we have to discuss it.”

“Because you have barely spoken to Blaise since the incident in the bathroom and, basically, it’s disturbing our well-ordered levels of friendship. I can’t be held accountable if I suddenly feel the need to widen my circle of friends and decide to spend time with Padma Patil.”

Pansy snorted. “Padma Patil? There’s only one reason you’d hang around with her and it certainly would have nothing to do with friendship.”

“Pansy. Why aren’t you talking to him?”

“Draco!” Pansy yelled, throwing her hands in the air as she stood up and began to pace in front of the fire. “I’m not not talking to him. You may not have noticed but Blaise has been a little bit more than withdrawn the last few days. The boy’s been practically catatonic. I can’t see what deep conversations you can have expected us to partake in.”

Draco watched her carefully. Keeping his tone casual, he innocently said; “Pansy? How did your mother die?”

She span to meet his eyes and dropped heavily back into the seat. “What?” she gasped out.

Draco continued to stare at her. “How did she die?”

Pansy didn’t reply, just looked down at her hands and crinkled her eyes to stop the tears from flowing. Draco sighed and leant back, running his hand through his hair, making it go flyaway and rest in a halo around his head. “That’s what I thought.”

Her head shot up and glared at him. “And what did you think, Draco?”

Turning his head slightly, Draco looked at her, his grey eyes empty. “Wherefore art thou, Parkinson?”

A/N: Repost after realising that I am an utter and complete idiot. Yes, I’m an English Lit student who just got her Shakespeare wrong. How can I ever live this down? I’ve studied both plays in detail! *hits self over head* That’s what I get for not having a beta reader and editing at three in the morning. So, so sorry for the ridiculously late update (I’ll be surprised if anyone still cares anymore). But, well, I’ve been spectacularly busy and had my first ever case of real writer’s block. Knew what needed to be said but couldn’t get it out. Also didn’t help that this chapter is pretty pivotal to the story- even if it may not seem it, especially as it‘s so short compared to the others. Sorry again and just think that more reviews might help any future cases of writer’s block. Hint hint. Hehe.

Draco’s father had always believed that the best way to understand your enemy was to study their culture, their way of living so that their every move could be anticipated. Which was why Draco had spent numerous hours of his childhood reading Muggle novels and plays, listening to their music and then having his father scowl every time he happened to mention something he liked. “You’re supposed to learn, Draco, not like.”

Pansy watched him warily from her chair, her expression reminiscent of a frightened animal. Draco dropped his hands heavily into his lap, his fingers threading together. “MacBeth,” he waved a hand, “well, that was Romeo and Juliet, but the ‘spot’ thing? Pure MacBeth.”

Pansy made a choked sound in her throat as Draco continued, his voice level as though he were explaining how he worked out a particularly difficult arithmancy problem. “So I got to thinking how the perfectly aristocratic Pansy Parkinson, daughter of Francis Parkinson, hater of all things Muggle, could possible know any Muggle playwrights.” He fixed her with a piercing gaze. “Your mother.”

Pansy dragged a hand through her hair, “You really are too smart sometimes, Draco.”

He shrugged blithely. “Cinnamon biscuits. What good Wizarding family uses a Muggle recipe rather than a spell?” He laughed wryly. “God, she must have worked hard to keep it a secret from your father.”

Pansy leaned forward and rested her clasped hands on her knees. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor as she spoke tiredly. “He didn’t know,” she barked out a laugh, “I didn’t know. Someone must have told him,” her eyebrows rose as she said lightly; “and then he killed her. It’s surprising how little blood the Death Curse causes.”

“Pansy…” He reached out a hand towards her as the wall moved open and Millicent and Teddy strode into the room. The gave the pair curious looks as Pansy rose pleading eyes to Draco and he nodded once, slowly. She breathed a sigh of relief and left the room to walk towards the girl’s dorm.

Draco looked over at the pair hovering near the doorway. Millicent didn’t seemed overly concerned but Teddy was watching Draco with a calculating look in his eyes that Draco wasn’t pleased to see. “Something wrong?” Draco asked curtly.

Teddy shrugged. “You tell me.”

Draco raised one elegant eyebrow as he rose from his seat and swept past him. “Not that I can see.”

*

It was with a great sense of trepidation that Draco slit the envelope open at the Slytherin table. He was well aware of the suspicious glances of not just the Gryfinndor table but more than a few pairs of eyes at the staff table. His father was barely speaking to him and so by proxy that meant his mother wasn’t either. And the teachers knew this. Draco stole a glance at Snape, noticing his eagle eyes shifting from his plate off eggs and bacon to Draco’s hands. He merely raised an elegant eyebrow and scowled when Draco pointedly looked up at him.

The page of parchment was blank. Draco stared at it curiously for a moment, then he scrumptiously pricked the end of his finger with his knife and watched the blood trickle onto the page. Blaise watched the reaction on Draco’s face carefully, not being able to see the paper because of a inconveniently situated jar of marmalade, whilst Pansy peered over his shoulder still carefully buttering her toast.

The message was simple and clear in bold print.

1a.m. Tonight. Common Room.

*

His father’s head was already sitting in the flames when Draco finally managed to drag himself out of his warm bed and wander into the common room. He hadn’t been able to sleep at all, the rhythmic snores of Goyle that were normally so familiar keeping him awake. But he had been warm and comfortable and the last thing he wanted to do was go and see his father.

“You’re late,” Lucius’ disdainful tones echoed through the room. Draco shrugged, the hour too late for his normal politeness, as he dropped in front of the fire to his knees.

“Barely.” He suppressed a yawn and watched his father’s scowl overtake his face. “What is that you want?”

Lucius arched an eyebrow, his body moving up the fire until his upper half was lit by flames. “I received some interesting orders from the Dark Lord, this morning.” Draco didn’t respond, not giving his father the satisfaction of appearing interested. “It seems the Parkinson girl knows something she shouldn’t.”

Draco froze, his entire posture shifting to alertness. “What do you mean?” He asked, striving to keep his voice neutral.

Lucius watched him, a calculating glint in his eye. “It appears her mother was a filthy Mudblood,” Draco perfected the appropriate expression of shock. Lucius shrugged, “so Parkinson dealt with that problem. But now, well, it seems Pansy found out about it.”

“So?” Draco croaked out, his throat suddenly terribly dry.

“Well, there is far more likelihood of it leaking out with a moronic teenager knowing the truth and we can’t have it leaking out, Draco.”

Draco felt as though his world had shrunk down to just him and his father. “What does that have to do with me?”

Lucius smiled. “The Dark Lord finally has a use for you. You’re friends with the girl,” the smile disappeared and he stared at him angrily for a moment, “Kill her.” And then he was gone.

Draco fell back on his heels, his heart pounding madly in his chest. And then he heard the quiet whimper from the corner of the room. He turned his head slowly, seeing the girl there, clutching her dressing gown around her, silent tears running down her cheeks. “Pansy.” Draco breathed.

She stared at him for a split second and then she was running, Draco leaping up off the floor to follow her. “Pansy!” he yelled as she slammed the bathroom door against him. “Pansy!” Hammering on the door, he tried again, “Pansy open the door!”

“What the?” Millicent wandered up behind Draco, her sleep filled eyes opening wide when she saw Draco’s frantic expression, her eyes then filling with tears as she saw the blood trickling down his knuckles from where he’d pounded on the door.

“Millicent!” Draco yelled, turning to her, “Give me your wand!”

She frantically patted down the pockets of her lilac dressing gown for a moment before shaking her head, distraught, crying; “I don’t have it!”

“Damn it!” Draco swore, violently shoving his shoulder up against the door.

“What the hell is going on?” Draco span to see Blaise and the other boys, flanked by a few seventh years who were all staring at him with the same, wide-eyed mystified expression. Draco darted forward when he saw Blaise grasping his wand, yanking it away from him to the sound of “Hey!”

“Alohomara!” The heavy door swung open and Draco’s world narrowed down to the small room behind it. He barely registered the sobbing that emitted from behind him, he didn’t notice when the seventh years pushed past him yelling about teachers and Madam Pomfrey, he didn’t realise when Blaise grabbed him and slowly lowered him to the floor to stop him falling. All that Draco could think was there’s so much blood for one human being.

*

“Draco,” Blaise was repeating the name like a mantra and still Draco couldn’t seem to move, even as Blaise’s words got more desperate, “Draco.” He was aware that Blaise wasn’t looking at him, “Draco,” his eyes were fixed on the crumpled body, blue sightless eyes looking so completely different without the spark of humour that normally occupied them, the glint of silver in her hand speckled with red.

“I didn’t know,” Draco registered the voice as Teddy’s, his friend leaning against the wall opposite him, his arms wrapped around his body, “I didn’t know. I thought I was doing good telling my Mother. I didn’t know.”

Something clicked in Draco’s brain and the world apart from Pansy’s lifeless body regained it’s colour and shape. “What?” He hissed, Blaise’s arms dropping from his body.

Teddy turned wide, fearful eyes on him, though he hardly seemed to notice Draco was there. “I just told my Mother Pansy knew about her mother,” he started to tremble, “I didn’t know.”

Without one coherent thought in his head Draco was suddenly in front of the trembling boy, his hands wrapped around Teddy’s fragile throat. Pure animal instinct made him tighten his grip. He was vaguely aware of Millicent’s sobs growing louder and Crabbe and Goyle leaping for him, only for, with one word, Blaise to stop them. Draco pressed harder, his fingers seeming to lose themselves in the satisfying softness of the flesh. Teddy’s gasps were becoming frailer, his body starting to slide down the wall, his punches against Draco becoming weaker when an arm threw Draco back against the other wall.

His eyes stayed fixed on Teddy even as the voice spoke. “What is the meaning of this?” Snape, Draco realised, finally able to tear his eyes away from Teddy. The Potions Master was stood looking angry, that expression giving way to shock as he looked past the rabble of students and saw Pansy. “Oh God,” he murmured.

Madam Pomfrey’s cry of distress as she rushed forward made Draco want to hit her. She hadn’t even known her. She’d hated her. Because she was a Slytherin.

Draco looked at Snape who came forward slowly to rest a hand on Draco’s shoulder in a fatherly fashion. Draco looked at it curiously for a moment and then shrugged it off rushing from the room, Blaise’s footsteps very close behind.

*

Draco finally collapsed by the edge of the lake, the giant squid tossing and turning in the moonlight, splashing the water in the otherwise silent night. He dragged in great mouthfuls of crisp air, realising that he wasn’t wearing anything other than his pyjamas.

Hurried footsteps announced Blaise’s presence before he dropped to the ground beside him, himself gasping for breath. Draco noticed the trails of tears down Blaise’s cheeks and his laboured breathing hitched. But Blaise never cries.

“What happened?” Blaise asked slowly, wonderingly.

Draco stared at him, something inside him hardening. “Pansy killed herself.”

Blaise flinched at the harsh delivery. “Why?” He sounded like a small child, the reality of the evening not seeming to have struck him yet.

The cold wind off the lake dried Draco’s cheeks and he stood, seeming to be perfectly in control. “Ask Teddy.” Blaise stared up at him, his old fierceness seeming to return for a second.

“I’m asking you, Draco.”

His blonde hair ethereal in the moonlight Draco looked down at Blaise. “I can’t answer you,” he turned away, his voice carrying on through the practically silent night. “I’m not on your side anymore.”

When he reached the steps of the castle Snape was there waiting for him, two cloaks clutched in his hands. Draco took one final look at the small figure still curled up by the side of the lake and he turned back to Snape, his expression hard. “Take me to Dumbledore.”

A/N: Okay so this took a freakishly long time so all I can say is; sorry?

Draco wouldn’t have ever thought that he would dislike being sent home early for the Easter holidays. But as he watched Pansy’s father stare stonily into his daughter’s grave he realised he was wrong. He would have given anything to be back at Hogwarts, playing cards in the common room, imagining that Voldermort was the best thing since sliced bread.

Instead he was stood in a misty cemetery, surrounded by tombstones of people that Draco had never heard of and who Pansy had no right joining. The sky was overcast and Draco fervently wished that it was sunnier and that birds were singing and that bunnies were hopping over the newly turned soil. Pansy hated rainy weather. She always said it made her hair frizz.

The droning words of the eulogy made Draco’s skin itch as they washed over him and he caught Blaise’s eye. The two stared at each other, the space across the open grave a fraction of what was really between them. The staring contest was broken as Lucius’ hand fell heavily on Draco’s shoulder, his son forcing himself not to flinch as fingers dug into skin. The perfect image of the father consoling his grieving son was projected. All those present who noticed the action knew the truth though. Lucius was making sure his son knew what was coming.

-----------------------------

The tension at the dinner table back at the manor was stifling, worse than any of the stifling tensions that Draco had seen around in the table in years. The ticking of the ancient Grandfather clock was the only noise in the room, the silence so complete that Draco began to believe he was already dead and this was his own personal hell. He watched his father’s hands carefully, not daring to look him in the eyes. He kept taking mouthfuls of the food, not registering what it was that he was eating, the food falling in ashes in his mouth.

Draco’s hand went for another forkful when there was a crash and his father’s wine goblet spilt onto the pristine white tablecloth. Draco watched in morbid fascination as the red wine spread, the sight pulling forth the image of blood running through flagstones from a perfect, ivory wrist.

He forced the macabre memory away as his father’s voice floated across to him.

“Well, Draco, I thought you weren’t worthy to be my son when you failed to become a Death Eater.”

Draco decided that it was a really bad time to point out that he had, in fact, become a Death Eater. He had merely rejected the offer.

“The Dark Lord sees no other use for you now,” his father began and Draco felt his heart lurch in his chest, still watching Lucius’ hands he waited for them to move towards his wand. “But I see no point in killing you.”

Draco felt his heart start working again and was fervently glad that he hadn’t gone towards the white light like he’d been so tempted to do.

“For one thing, your Mother has some strange fondness for you,” Draco dared a glance towards the silent figure at the other end of the table. Narcissa was gazing at her husband with an odd expression on her face, her finger circling the rim of her wine glass. “And I don’t really see why I should take the time.” Lucius leaned forward and grabbed his son’s face, tilting it towards him. “We keep our first borns alive until they become useful. Malfoy tradition. Believe me, Draco, otherwise you would be dead.” Lucius rose from the table then, folding his napkin perfectly and placing it on the tablecloth, watching as it soaked up some of the spilt wine, slowly becoming redder and redder. “I do wonder how Dumbledore felt about seeing one of his students butcher themselves.”

No-one answered him, the ticking his only reply. “Voldermort has decided that you will re-indoctrinated when you finish Hogwarts. He has high hopes for you still, Draco. And for that you are exceedingly lucky.” Lucius smiled then. “Apparently you far exceeded any others in your endurance of your training. I imagine that was my influence. Your reaction to your belief that I was to kill you showed that well enough.” Draco tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, trying to work out how he got saddled with a father willing to imply his son was going to die just to see his reaction. “Oh, and apparently you have some skill too.” Lucius added, flippantly, and then strode from the room.

Draco watched his retreating back, aware of his mother’s presence and so holding back a sigh of relief. He turned towards her when he heard a swish of skirts. His mother was stood, her perfect features schooled into an expression of total complacency.

Narcissa followed her husband from the room, saying; “Finish your dinner, Draco.” She paused in the doorway, one elegant hand leaning on the doorframe. “Oh, and try and make yourself useful sooner rather than later.

--------------------------

Once again Draco was lying on his bed, staring at his ceiling. Least it was vaguely more interesting than his Hogwarts ceiling, if only for the change of pace. He was tired, ridiculously so. His sleep was interrupted by dreams where he saw Pansy’s dead body lying on the flagstones, the blood running faster and faster from her body.

Though sometimes he got to her before she found the knife and talked her into going into hiding and he was visiting her in the South of France. And he’d convinced Blaise that he should go with her and he was holding perfect, little children with bright blue eyes.

And then sometimes in his dreams he’d got to her a bit sooner and he was frantically trying to save her and that wasn’t working either. And she said words of goodbye or she said she hated him and Draco always sobbed over her body.

Or sometimes he found her quickly again. But he didn’t help he just stood over her body and watched her die and those blue eyes pleaded with him to help her. Just like they had done in life. And Draco ignored them. Just like he had done when she was alive.

The dreams that made Draco wake up screaming, his t-shirt clinging to his body, her name on the edge of his lips were the ones where it wasn’t even Pansy anymore, it was Ginny. And she always turned to look at him and whispered; ‘this is your fault’.

Those were the dreams that made Draco refuse to go back to sleep and start his perusal of the bedroom ceiling.

A knock at the door snapped Draco out of mentally cataloguing his collection of silk shirts. He raised himself idly up on one arm and waited to see who would appear through the door when he yelled, politely, of course, “Come in!”

Fighting to get rid of the shock on his face Draco was barely prepared when Professor Snape smiled slightly and said; “Come, Draco, your father and myself believe that you need to catch up on your schoolwork. A walk in the gardens would be the ideal place, don’t you think?”

Draco just nodded dumbly, aware that he was looking like a fish and just hoping that it wasn’t something Snape would use against him in future blackmailing situations.

-----------------------------

Snape held the door open as they wandered into the manor grounds, Draco murmuring the spell that would allow them to wander as far as they wanted without Professor Snape exploding or being eaten or something of the sort.

They walked in silence for a while, Draco trying to work out whether he was going to burn in what was an unusually sunny day. He held his hand out experimentally and decided that the sun didn’t feel that hot.

He was on the verge of asking if they could go back for some sun cream when Snape began to speak.

“So, how are you, Draco?” He asked, pausing to look across the river that bisected the Malfoy property.

Draco shrugged. “My hair’s looking rather good this month and I’m not having much trouble with my skin so that’s all great. Though, I’m not too sure that those flat caps that are back in style will suit my face shape. I’m getting over that issue though.”

“Draco,” Snape said warningly.

“One of my best friends are dead because I was ordered to kill them. What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” Snape admitted, he suddenly looked far older than he should have, “but I hear that talking about these things helps.”

Draco snorted. “You’ve been hanging around emotionally loose Gryfinndors for too long. I’m a Malfoy. We bottle our emotions up until they explode in some sort of tremendously violent way. Or we just simmer in a low rage for years. Why do you think my Father’s always so angry? Lost a pet rabbit when he was young and never got over it.”

Snape appeared to ignore most of what Draco had said, which Draco had been expecting anyway. “Talking about those Gryfinndors, Dumbledore wanted me to talk to you.”

Draco tensed. “About what?”

“Your use,” Snape said, carefully, seeming to weigh every word.

“Why is everyone so concerned with my ‘use’ all of a sudden?”

“Dumbledore wishes you to find out certain things about your father’s activities.” Snape’s voice had gone cold.

“I imagine that you weren’t too thrilled with that plan,” Draco said, a hint of laughter in his voice, “You’ve been trying to keep us all out of this from the very beginning. And now you’re the one who’s recruiting me.”

“You recruited yourself, Draco,” Snape said, his voice just as cold, “in two instants. One, when you chose to learn the ways of being a Death Eater. And two, when you chose to abandon them completely.”

A flash of Pansy leapt into Draco’s head. “I want to do something.”

“Revenge is not always the best motivator.”

“I thought you were recruiting me?” Draco said, slightly surprised at the turn in conversation.

“I wish to ensure that you are doing this for the right reasons,” Snape stared off into the distance, his eyes a thousand miles away, or maybe a few decades back.

“I am,” Draco replied, confidently, an image of Ginny replacing the one of Pansy. He sighed suddenly, bringing Snape back to the present. “I just don’t know how much help I’m going to be. Father barely trusted me when I was the perfect son, now I’m just the disappointment that eats his food.”

“His disregard for you may be your greatest asset, Draco,” he glanced at the house. “Now, here,” he handed Draco a sheet of parchment.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at it. “Surely, instructions on my spy activities should be given in a less obvious way. How do you people survive?”

Snape actually smiled, then. “No, Draco. It’s your homework.”

---------------------------------

His father’s office had returned to it’s usual state after Voldermort’s visit and so Draco had no difficulty in finding what he was looking for. The old, leather bound diary lay on the centre of the desk, it’s edges frayed and ink-stained from where so many Malfoys had held it.

Draco sucked in a deep breath as his fingers caressed the cover. Talking to Dumbledore had seemed like the easiest betrayal compared to this. This was his father’s diary. The one thing that his father had always expressly forbid him from looking at. The restriction had never bothered Draco before. He’d rebelled against all the other rules his parents imposed when he was young; he’d eaten sugar after dinner, gone exploring in the dungeons and once had even leapt off the highest turret just because his father had told him without looking at him that he couldn’t fly.

But Draco had never touched the diary. He’d never needed to, really. He had always known that he would be allowed it the day he became the head of Malfoy Manor. And then everything his father and grandfather and great-grandfather and so on had ever thought would be open to him.

But times were different. It was likely now that he would never become the head of this house, the thought twisting Draco’s stomach as though he had been stabbed. And he needed to know what was inside that diary. And only a Malfoy could find out. He reached for the letter opener that lay beside the book and pricked his finger, his face not changing at all with the pain.

Opening the book carefully the drop of blood and the words Malforium Manifesto, sent words darting across the page, Draco’s eyes scanning them all hurriedly, terrified of hearing his father’s footsteps approaching the room.

---------------------------------

Unlike his father’s, Dumbledore’s office hadn’t changed at all since his last visit, the odd contraptions still whirring and hissing and completely unnerving Draco. He was instantly happier when he saw Snape wander in followed by Dumbledore.

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore started, taking his seat across the desk. Draco imagined that the hint of cold that the doddery old professor couldn’t quite keep from his voice was entirely absent when dealing with Potter. “Professor Snape tells me you have some information for us.”

Draco nodded, too tired from sneaking around his own home to be too bothered that being silent might be slightly impolite. He stretched as he stood, the movement oddly feline, and handed the headmaster a blank roll of parchment.

Snape raised an eyebrow and Dumbledore cleared his throat to make a comment when Draco tiredly withdrew a dagger from his robes. “Mr. Malfoy!” was the headmaster’s expected shocked expression.

Draco just smiled slightly and cut his finger, letting his blood run onto the page. Noticing how the area was beginning to scar, Snape raised another eyebrow. Draco shrugged, least you couldn’t say he hadn’t bled for the cause.

Dumbledore didn’t notice Draco’s hands, his eyes hungrily scanning the roll of parchment. “This is wonderful work, Draco.”

“My handwriting is perfect, yes, sir,” Draco said, deliberately misunderstanding him as he flopped back into his chair.

“The things your father has done and thought…” Dumbledore trailed off and looked up, as though realising that Lucius Malfoy’s son was still in the room. “Thank you, Draco. I understand it has cost you a lot to gather this information.” Draco looked away, the sympathy in the old man’s eyes not welcome. “ Get some sleep,” he practically ordered. “You look tired.”

Draco smiled a crooked grin at Snape, who had stood silently by the entire time. “Sorry, sir, I have homework.”

------------------------------

The fire in the common room didn’t seem to give the room any heat, the silence of the people within it making the area seem oppressive. Teddy turned away from Draco the instant he walked in the door, Millicent casting a fearful look between the pair.

Draco ignored them all, striding straight past them and into his room. His trunk still lay at the end of his bed and he set to unpacking it, ignoring the figure laying on the next bed.

It wasn’t up to Draco to make amends with Blaise, indeed he wasn’t entirely sure amends could be made. He’d drawn his line in the metaphorical sand and now he needed to see where Blaise was willing to stand.

He rhythmically unpacked, beginning to think that Blaise was never going to say anything ever again. The thought hurt, he and Blaise had been brothers for as long as Draco could remember and the idea of not talking to him again was a loss that hurt more than Draco would have expected.

He was about to leave the room when Blaise finally spoke.

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked why I haven’t told anyone your little defection.”

Draco turned to look at him. Blaise was lying on his back on the bed, his eyes outlined by shadows. “I assumed you had your reasons. Saved me from being killed and so I wasn’t really going to argue.”

“Not like you not to argue,” Blaise said, his voice dull.

“I might be narcissistic and stubborn and spend too much time trying to make my eyelashes look longer, but being argumentative is not one of my faults, luckily.”

“I didn’t tell them because I don’t want you to die,” Blaise’s voice was that same dull monotone broken only now by a harsh and brittle laugh, “childish, I know.”

Draco suddenly realised that it wouldn’t have mattered if Blaise had never spoke to him again; his friend was gone. The Death Eaters had killed everything that made him Blaise. He might as well have been laying there with the mask on, for all that he was an actual individual.

Swallowing, Draco tried; “Blaise…”

“Just go away, Draco,” he still wouldn’t look at Draco.

Draco stared at him for another minute and then he turned and walked from the room.

The common room was still silent as he strode back in and he barely glanced at them as he left the dungeons, his step catching only once as he walked past Pansy’s customary chair.

-----------------------------

Draco had never disliked his lessons more. He had no-one he particularly wanted to sit with and all he could do for most of his lessons was notice how more and more listless Blaise became, even when Draco knew that he hadn’t left the castle for any more missions.

Snape’s concerned eyes darted between them every Potions lesson and Draco was growing tired of it.

He walked furiously away from the potions classroom, pausing only to avoid slamming into large groups of students. The small groups he just ploughed through. He was so irked by his lesson that he didn’t even notice Ginny until she moved past him and slipped something into his hand.

Draco was so shocked that he froze in the middle of the corridor, though everyone had the good sense to swerve around him. He unfolded the paper cautiously, entirely unsure as to how Ginny felt about him at the present moment.

Her distinctively curly handwriting leapt off the page at him; Meet me on the tower. Now.

Draco glanced around him, making sure no-one had noticed him, and then he strode away from all the students, leaving their noise behind him as he climbed higher and higher into the castle.

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She was already waiting for him when he got there, her bright red hair tossed behind her like a banner in the wind.

“So, you’re on our side, now?” Ginny asked, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her robes until they began to stay the way they twisted, little stars dotting the red material.

Draco sighed, looking over the turrets, watching Hogwarts fall away into the real world. He saw Hagrid ambling around and shivered as he watched him go into the Forbidden Forest.

“What do you want from me, Ginny?” Draco asked, tiredly, tracing the gaps in the tower stones with his fingertips.

She grabbed his shoulder and swung him around so he was facing her. Her nervousness had vanished leaving the fiercely assertive girl that Draco had missed so much.

“I want to know the truth,” she fixed him with a steely gaze, “are you really on our side?”

“Don’t you know me at all?” Draco asked, his anger rising at her disbelief of him.

“I know you’d follow your father anywhere,” her hands didn’t move from his shoulders as she shrugged, “and I’m fairly certain he hasn’t turned into one of the good guys.”

“Pansy died,” Draco said, he’d wanted to sound harsh to make her realise how that changed everything, how that made everything so, so real but his voice broke as he said it, the pain of her death still a sharp sting. A confused expression crossed Ginny’s face and it struck Draco with a shock of horror that Dumbledore hadn’t told them everything.

“I know,” Ginny said, sympathetically, rubbing his shoulder in a consoling gesture, “But what does that have to do…” her eyes grew wide as implications hit her. “My God,” she breathed, “they killed her. Oh, Draco, I’m so…”

Draco barked a sharp, harsh laugh that shocked Ginny into taking a step back. “They didn’t kill her, Ginny. She killed herself. Or rather, I killed her.” Draco said, the last part the first time he had ever admitted the crushing guilt he’d been feeling out loud.

Ginny’s mouth fell open. “What? I don’t…I don’t understand?”

“She overheard my father telling me to kill her,” Draco admitted, his voice quiet as the memory of the night flashed before him. “So, yes, Ginny,” he turned to stare at her, his eyes dark and dangerous, “I’m on your side.”

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They sat, side by side, their backs to the tower wall, for what seemed like hours, watching the sky change from clear blue to a mixed palette of reds and purples as the sun vanished behind the horizon.

“Why won’t you kiss me?” Ginny finally asked, her voice even as her eyes stayed fixed on the sunset.

Draco grinned properly, for what felt like the first time in years. “I seem to recall you being able to kiss me first just fine.” She smiled back and moved forward. Draco placed a hand out, stilling her. She fell back on her heels, an annoyed expression on her face.

“Why?”

Letting his head flop back, Draco sighed. “Because it would be even worse if my Father found out about us, now.”

“That was always a problem!” Ginny protested.

“Well, maybe we should have paid attention before.”

She sighed in annoyance and moved forward so their faces were inches from one another. “Draco, you’re being ridiculous. Your life is full of risks. And I want to be one more.”

“When will you realise that it’s too dangerous to be around me?”

“When will you realise that I don’t care?”

And then she kissed him, hard, the rough stones behind him digging into his back.