Unofficial Portkey Archive

Harry Potter and the Gilded Portrait

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Chapter Thirty One - Changes

Draco Malfoy sat in the Slytherin common room unwittingly contemplating the conversation he just had with the new Head Girl. The information she had given him and the things she said made him feel even worse than he already did.

What he had told her was true. The months he had spent in Azkaban prison was like a horrible nightmare that never seemed to end. To relive your worst fears haunted by all the things that lurked in the deep dark recesses of ones mind over and over was enough to debilitate even the strongest of wizards.

…And now he was here…

It was the last place on earth he wanted to be.

He couldn't help but wonder what his life would have been like if the Dark Lord had succeeded. Would he have been held in higher regard? Would his family been treated like Wizard royalty?

After the conversation with the torrid little Mudblood princess, she seemed to be convinced the answer to that question was a resounding - NO!

In truth, Lord Voldemort valued no-one but himself. It was something Draco had figured out when he had to watch his own father walk the vale deep in the bowls of the Ministry's Department of Mysteries.

He was forced to admit Granger had been right about something else as well. His father had failed Lord Voldemort - more than once. He, himself had failed. He could not utter the spell that would have ended Albus Dumbledore's life.

Why?

The bigger question he found himself asking was…why did he want to kill Dumbledore in the first place?

His conclusion was that, if he was to be honest with himself, Granger had also been right about his allegiance to the Dark Lord. He didn't want to serve Voldemort…not really. He didn't want to serve anyone. It made him physically ill to admit that to himself but he could not deny the truth staring him in the face.

At first when he received the dark mark he thought it was acceptance into the adult world - that it would bring respect and fear from their enemies…but it didn't…did it.

Everyone still saw him as just Malfoy…just like before.

Being a member of what he had thought was an elite group should have brought him fame and glory…

What it had brought him, in the end, was nothing but pain and death and loss.

But what if we had won?

He couldn't help but think about all those Death Eaters who had fought and died for Voldemort.

For what?

Worm Tail, who was a sniveling coward but he had served Voldemort with unquestioned loyalty; Severus Snape who ended up being killed by Voldemort's own hand. Voldemort did nothing to save him. He did nothing to save any of them. They were all expendable, just pawns to be used.

The Dark Lord had been content to toss his whole family aside - Acceptable losses in the quest for his ultimate prize…

What ultimate prize? Wealth, power…invincibility, and what would we have gotten out of all of that?

It made him feel even worse to realize he couldn't answer that question either.

Hermione Granger's words echoed around in his head as he sat trying to come to terms with all that had transpired over the last several years. Try as he might he could not seem to envision what his life might have been like if the outcome had been different.

He tried to think if there was anything he could have done that might have made a difference but came up depressingly blank on that score. Would it have made a difference if they could have killed Potter in the Room of Requirement that night or maybe on the Hogwarts Express?

He suddenly realized that his enemy - the one he was sent to capture and deliver up to the Dark Lord - had saved his life on that very same night in the Room of Requirement … and he didn't have to…

Confusion and a horribly unsettled feeling made his stomach clench uncomfortably.

One thing was absolutely certain though…

The most powerful dark sorcerer of all time had fallen at the hands of that teen-aged half-wit Harry Potter…and it hadn't been by luck or accident.

He had seen…along with all the rest of them as Harry Bloody Potter dispatched the Dark Lord with nothing more than a simple first year disarming jinx. It was, much to Draco's utter dismay, on of the most astounding things he had ever witnessed.

Draco sat staring into the fireplace as he heard someone come in through the portal. He was much too lost in his own depressing musings to even care who it was.

When a lone figure finally breached his peripheral vision he looked up and discovered it was Pansy.

Draco's mood seemed to darken even further at the sight of her distraught features.

After he had tried to slip onto the Hogwarts Express un-noticed she had managed to find him. She had attempted to try and wedge herself between him and his misery but for some reason he didn't much feel like being comforted.

It wasn't her exactly. He liked her. She was even prettier than when she was younger. Not quite as attractive as the Mudblood or the Weaslette.

Merlin's ghost…someone had dumped a whole cauldron of hot and gorgeous all over the fiery little redhead (who was not so little anymore).

For some reason he didn't want to let Pansy in. He didn't want to let anyone in…and he had no idea why.

He continued to watch her out of the corner of his eye as she seemed to hover just at the edge of his periphery. It was becoming distracting so he stood and made his way to his dorm room where he knew she could not follow.

It's because she'll see…She'll see the fear. She'll discover how weak you've become!

The mere thought of it made him want to wretch and hurl himself off the Astronomy tower.

Just like Albus Dumbledore…

He threw himself on his bed, folding one arm behind his head. He watched Blaze Zabinni practice a complicated transfiguration of his quill into a sword. He thought he had managed it quite well until the sword started wilting like a dieing plant.

"Bugger," Blaze spit.

The seemingly permanently confunded Crabb just guffawed as he watched.

"I'd like to see you do it then you big lummox," Blaze threw at Crabb with a nasty look.

"Not even," Crabb replied with a stupid smirk, "I know me limits mate."

This innocuous conversation seemed to grate on Draco's nerves like a cheese grater. In days past he would have told them to both shut up but in his present state of mind he simply opted for tuning them out.

It was a lot easier than he realized as his mind drifted to his wand.

He reached over and took it from the bed-side stand and holding it up in front of his face he pondered why his wand didn't seem to want to work for him any longer.

Even the simplest spells didn't work. He had tried for days after being released from Azkaban to figure out why his wand no longer worked in his hands but he couldn't seem to manage it.

Seeing his apparent distress his mother had given him her own wand. His wand seemed to work relatively well for her but it was ill suited for anything even remotely complicated. The same seemed to go for her wand for him as well. It was almost embarrassing.

A talented and skillful witch in her own right, even Narcissa was at a loss for what was causing the wand not to respond.

She had spent almost a week pouring over books and texts in the rather meager Malfoy library but no answers could be found.

As a result of what had transpired up until and shortly after the fall of the Dark Lord, the Malfoy name was not as revered as it once had been so inquiring about the problem at the Ministry was simply out of the question.

Even though Harry Potter had testified on her behalf, telling an angry and vengeful Wizengamot how she had lied to Voldemort to save his life it had left little in the way of forgiveness or compassion for the Malfoys.

Watching Lucius walk the vale had not helped. Seeing the Malfoy matriarch stumble and crawl, sobbing and weeping and groveling for forgiveness had filled both her and her son with a horrible sense of shame and loathing for their once proud and defiant husband and father.

She had hated herself for feeling that way but at least he could have shown some dignity in the final moments of his life. Then again, she had never been faced with certain death either. She had reminded Draco of this more than once.

Draco had met his fate with much more poise and self control. He was scared…of course he was. He had seen what Azkaban had done to his Aunt. The place had driven Bellatrix completely insane.

He remembered what she had been like before she had been sent away. She had been rather quiet, reserved but exuded a competent power and strength. She had been beautiful like a dark Angel of the night - captivating and exotic.

The constant and continual exposure to the Dementors had twisted her into a ranting lunatic. The wild and disheveled appearance replaced whatever beauty she had possessed.

Draco remembered fearing the same would happen to him.

Three month on the inside of that place had felt like an eternity, the never-ending cold, the never-ending paranoia. It had infested his very soul like a disease.

Even after his release into the sobbing relief of his doting mother, the place had left indelible marks on him, both inside and out.

Not quite two weeks into his sentence he had found a rather flat piece of rock in his holding cell. He had spent almost a week scraping it to a sharp edge against the iron bars of the door to his stone edifice.

When the feelings of debilitating sadness and emptiness invaded his mind he would drag the sharp edge of the stone across the dark mark on his forearm. Each cut would not only drag his mind up from the depths of his subconscious it also served to obscure the vile symbol of the one he had come to hate more than any other.

Voldemort had replaced even Harry Potter as the target of his anger and disgust - and that was saying something significant.

This little ritual was the one thing that kept him from loosing himself to the madness that surrounded him like an oppressing weight but as his rotten luck would have it he had also contracted a rather nasty infection from his continually self-inflicted wounds.

He had spent a better part of two weeks in Saint Mungo's after his release recovering from a hideous fever that had left him thin and gaunt.

Once he had discovered the problem with his wand he just surmised it was the left-over effects of Azkaban that was causing it. When he finally told his mother about it he quickly discovered it was something more. Something else was causing his wand not to function and he still had no clue as to what it could be.

As he sat staring at his wand, spinning it slowly in his fingers, he suddenly realized someone who just might have the answers he needed…

…And it just happened to be the last person in the whole wizarding world who would probably help him.

He couldn't help but sigh dejectedly as he tossed his wand back on the bed side table with a feeling of utter disgust.

Life at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was going to be almost as bad as being locked up with a bunch of soul-sucking monsters and humorless prison guards.

He just wanted to become invisible until it was all over.

The Headmistress, for some convoluted reason had decided to make him Slytherin Prefect. He had no desire to be a Prefect nor carry out the necessary duties of said position. It was partly his desire to remain invisible but the other was that she had made Pansy the other Prefect.

Although he did attend the mandatory Prefect meeting with the Head Boy and Girl he scarcely remembered what had transpired. Pansy had willingly clued him in later but he was only half listening then. He just wanted to be left alone!

It was late one night lying sleepless in bed when he was hit with an epiphany right out of the blue. He had no idea where the thought came from but he remembered…

He remembered what life had been like for Harry Snotty Potter after all the strange things began to occur in and around Hogwarts just prior to the re-emergence of the Dark Lord. Draco and all the Slytherins had reveled in the fact that everyone seemed to think Potter a tosspot…a nutter. He recalled how they all leered at him laughing and whispering and then it hit Draco like a cold slap in the face…

I know exactly what that's like! I'm the bloody Boy-Who-Went-To-Azkaban! Merlin's ghost…someone please just kill me now!

It had plagued his mind for days after and he spent most of his time just trying to dodge all the looks and whispers. What was even worse was that he knew, no matter how bad things got for him, Potter came through. In the end he had succeeded despite all the stress, pressure and pain they had inflicted upon him. It made him ill to think it…That Harry Potter was stronger…better than he was. It was a bitter pill to swallow but it didn't make it any less real. He wondered why the bloody Golden Sot had not returned to bask in the glory that was now his.

He remembered that Harry Potter possessed an extraordinary piece of magical equipment. An invisibility cloak!

Draco had heard about them from somewhere but he also knew they were very rare. There were cloaks and clothing that were imbibed with misdirection or disillusionment charms but they weren't the same…at least not like the cloak Potter possessed.

He jokingly wondered if Harry would let him borrow it for the length of the term so he could just go through the whole year without anyone being the wiser. He also thought maybe that was why he had not seen Potter yet. Maybe he was under the thing right now himself.

He also remembered he could have snatched it from the snot that day on the Hogwarts Express when he caught Harry hiding in the luggage rack above his head. He should have killed him then but Voldemort would have not been happy, not that it really mattered in the end. He was getting a bit weary of thinking about it all.

He found that some of the younger Slytherin students still revered him somewhat but most just simply looked at him like he had grown a third eye in the middle of his forehead.

He had become an oddity, an object to be stared at and whispered about behind hands. It was ridiculous and juvenile.

He just wanted to get the hell out of Hogwarts and get on with his miserable life with nothing to look forward to but endless days of being subjected to total scorn and dejection. Not a very pleasant prospect…

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