Title:   Jewel Box (Love Ridden 7)

Author: Romie

Archive:  anywhere.  In fact, I'd appreciate it.  Let me know if it's

convenient.

Rating:  G

Pairing:  prelude to Harry/Draco

Spoilers:  none

Disclaimers:  Rowling is God.

Warning: This series contains a consensual, non-explicit, same-sex relationship.  Don't read it if you can't handle it.

Summary:  Draco contemplates his incarceration.

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I've always been a Slytherin.  Even before I came to Hogwarts.  My father was a Slytherin; so was his father, and *his* father.  It's said among our family that Salazar's first pupil was a Malfoy; it might even be true.  There's certainly a serpent on the family crest that can't be explained in any better way.

 

They've taken me out of Slytherin.  Dumbledore and the others.  I don't think they're allowed to *do* that, but I've no one to complain to.  (It's not as though I can owl my parents.)  Even Snape agreed with them.  Said he didn't want to penalize the whole house for my actions.  I argued that this was a disgraceful violation of rules and tradition, but McGonagall, (sour old maid,) said that since I'd never had much regard for either, there was no reason to start now.

 

Not only have they removed me from my house, from my *home*, but they refuse to give me another.  Not outright expulsion - that would be too simple.  Instead, they've cleared out an unoccupied room in the teachers' wing and worked out a schedule to give me individual lessons, separate from the other students'.  I guess they're afraid I'll infect the rest of the school, wickedness carried on my breath like bacteria.

 

I know the truth.  They don't want me, but since my parents are gone, they can't get rid of me without a scandal.  So they're herding me toward graduation, the marathon's finish line - after that, I'll be on my own, their legal and moral obligations discharged.  They'll be able to sleep soundly at night, assured they Did The Right Thing, even if I'm diseased, hungry, homeless.  Because, you see, it'll be my own damn fault for squandering the resources they've given me.

 

For now, it's theirs.  Their responsibility.  Their job to worry about me whether they want to or not.  They have to teach me; they have to feed me; they have to act as though they care.  It's that simple.  And I don't get any say in it.  I'm their prisoner.  (Dumbledore tried to tell me this is for my protection.  As though that makes it any better.  I think he's been planning it for a while, just waiting for an excuse - can't let me fall into the hands of the Dark Lord, after all.  He might be able to *corrupt* me somehow; poor innocent Draco.)

 

I'll act as though I haven't noticed, as though I'm *happy*.  (At least I'll annoy the hell out of McGonagall that way.)  I'll pretend this is a reward.  Imagine: I get my own room.  No one else has that privilege, barring the head boy and girl.  Moreover, I get private tutors, the best in the world.  I am a prince of Hogwarts.

 

It's very lonely.  I'm a jewel box figurine; I twirl while the lid is open, but spend most of my time locked away in the dark.

 

At least I don't have to face Harry any time soon.  Frankly, I don't have the energy.  I don't even want remember the way he just . . . looked at me.  As though I was his pet, his amusement for the day.  His project.  I insulted his friends, and he *smiled*.  Green eyes like cameras, recording my outburst for later analysis.

 

This must be his dream come true.  My sequestering.  Oh, he'll be sad for a while - they've taken away his toy, after all.  But he'll find something new and shiny to play with, and forget all about that.  Instead, he'll remember that old rival, that bad seed, who got what he deserved in the end.  It'll confirm his faith in Karma.  Good people get rewarded, bad people get punished.  Moreover, it'll be a weight off his shoulders; he doesn't have to worry any more about doing the noble, civilized, *Gryffindor* thing.

 

Good for him.  I hope he's smart enough to enjoy his freedom, although I doubt he will be.  He'll probably just replace me - maybe he'll try to reform Goyle.  *There's* an amusing image.  Wish I was around to see it. . . But I suppose that's the point, isn't it?  I'm not.

 

I don't have any classes today; they haven't finalized the schedule yet.  I'm eating alone in my room; the house elves have been instructed to bring me whatever I want.  As if that makes up for the fact they've put a monitoring spell on the door so  I can't leave without their knowledge.

 

I wonder what they'd do if I killed myself.  That'd put a crimp in all their lovely plans, wouldn't it?  They'd never forgive themselves.  It'd be so easy. . . I know how to do it with no pain, no deformation.  What's the saying?  Die young and leave a beautiful corpse? 

 

I'll never actually do it, though.  Too stubborn.  Pity.  They'd deserve it.

 

So.  Hours and hours of free time while the others are in class.  Maybe I'll ask for some library books on disturbing subjects.  The elves are sure to report back to Dumbledore; it'd worry him terribly if I developed a sudden interest in, say, psychic vampirism.  Give him another wrinkle in his forehead.  No, wait - he'd probably want to *talk* to me.  *Counsel* me.  See if I'm *okay*.  Scratch that idea.

 

Damn.  There's *really* nothing to do.  How do I usually entertain myself?  I can't remember now.  Obsessing over Harry must take up more of my time than I'd realized.

 

I finish my meal, and find a pack of cards.  Solitaire.  Appropriate name.

 

I miss my mother.  Every summer, we'd get season tickets for the symphony.  (I wonder if she remembered to cancel the subscription before she left to join my father.  She always did forget things like that.  One winter, we returned from a week's holiday in Greece to find the house elves chopping up the neighbors' trees for firewood.  My mother had remembered to turn off the house's heating spells, but failed to dismiss the help.  It's not that she's stupid; she just lives in the *future* and doesn't think to check on the mundane, the routine.)

 

We'd arrive an hour early to take tea and sandwiches in the cafe across from the concert hall.  She always made certain to find us a seat by the window, from whence we could watch the people hurry past.  As a game, we'd assume they were all musicians and guess at their instruments.  (I don't think we ever guessed each other, but she'd be the glockenspiel: silver, sparkling, transcendent.  Bell-like.)

 

Dumbledore would be a bassoon: quirky and unusual, with a strange enough sense of humor to make even casual exchanges unpredictable.  I've never been able to tell whether his nonsense means he's brilliant or just senile.  Perhaps he doesn't know himself.

 

Snape's a violin: mournful, snobbish, controlled.  I can picture him swaying in an alleyway in Dickens' London, bowing castles in the air.  Tin cup at his feet collecting more snow than coins.  He'd starve to death before he sold his beloved instrument.  Yes.  A violin.

 

Harry's harder to place.  Some days, I think he's a French horn; others, a jazz clarinet.  Whenever I think I've decided definitively, he does something to make me question it again.  He's a difficult person to nail down, "straightforward" as he purports to be.    Even if I had a lifetime, I'm not sure that I'd ever understand him entirely.

 

I sigh and put the cards away.  This is disgusting.  It's only been five minutes, and I'm back to thinking about Harry.  Worse, the card game took no time at all; at this rate, I'll die of old age before today's end.  There *has* to be something better to do with this era of solitude.

 

Maybe. . . Maybe I could learn to play music.  Develop a skill that has nothing to do with magic, with this family, with this school.  A talent that's mine alone, that I don't ever have to share with anyone else if I don't want to.  I certainly have the time and the privacy.  And it'll help keep my mind off things I can't have.

 

Fighting back excitement, determined to look stern and inscrutable, I call for a house elf and ask her to bring me an instrument.  She looks puzzled; she wants more specific instructions.  But who could choose?  Out of all of the timbres, which one is the best?  An instrument should pick *you* - it should be fated, obvious.  She should know without my telling her.  Finally, I send her scurrying off, to find what she can.

 

I *will* beat this imprisonment.  And by the time I get out, by the time I graduate, I will have the ability to create beauty.