hog he seems to be (kidding, kidding). As I write these he’s in my ear talking a mile a
minute (the phone, get it?) telling me some key phrases, events, and the like, but I’m
actually hitting the keys and doing to transitional stuff. He just thought you’d want to
know. Fss, shows what he knows
***
Draco was getting tired. They told you all about Apparating in school. They told you
about its dangers, its uses... if you hung around Granger for more than five minutes you’d
end up hearing you couldn’t do it onto or off of Hogwarts grounds. What they didn’t tell
you was that when you weren’t used to it, it was very, very draining. It wasn’t like his
legs hurt, or his muscles strained- he did have the Maxima charm, after all- it was
something different that that. For the first time in his life he was beginning to realize how
Muggles felt, having to deal with the fact that they had limits, and that they were
smacked in the face with them everyday. No wonder they jammed themselves in such
unseemingly and uncomfortable looking clothes, it was like an exact representation of
their skills on the outside.
His hometown. If you could call it that. The Mansion was miles away from the actual
city, but it was the closest public gathering area to it, so it was his hometown by proxy.
He didn’t really know why, but he didn’t think his father would be in the mansion.
Maybe it was because he still remembered how his dad was never there on his birthdays,
when he got home from school... every Christmas except the one where his mother went
out and his father spent the morning fucking some giggly whore in one of his many
offices. Carefully, he held up his aura wand (Pine, 7 inches, firm) in the palm of his hand,
letting it sit loosely. “Show me,” he muttered, and the wand spun for a moment, and then
pointed directly down the street. His eyes traced the path it carved out. The Bar. Typical.
He decided to spare himself the effort in another Apparation and simply walked down the
road, his hand never leaving the wand he had jammed in one of the folds of his robe. The
bleeding had been stopped with a single wand wave, but the palm was still dark red from
the blood that had already spilled and was drying in the cracks of his skin. For a moment
he wondered if it was staining his robe, and began to laugh. That kind of thing didn’t
matter anymore. It probably never would again.
It really wouldn’t do to march in the front door waving his wand around like some kind
of vigilante. The voice in his head was telling him that. Not the one that was simply
moaning, sounding desperate, but growing quieter (“No, no, Draco, god, no..”), but the
one he liked to call the other Draco. The smart Draco. The Draco that knew all the tricks
of the trade, knew all the lingo of the streets, all the tricks of the duel. The Draco he
wanted to become. Or had wanted to. There would be at least a dozen men loaded in that
place, drunk off their asses, which made them both more dangerous even as it made their
aim worse. Stupid risks were not something he needed to be taking this early in the game.
He calmly leapt the iron link fence that rimmed the back of the pub, reopening the cuts
on his hands on the barbed wire that had been wound around the top of the gate. He
marched up to the wooden door -wizards had no need of steel when they wanted to keep
someone out- and pounded on it just once, knowing there was a man directly on the other
side especially meant for special visitors. He heard once that Muggle doors of this nature
had an eye piece that slid away so the bouncer could look out, but that wasn’t necessary
in this world. The door simply suddenly went clear, like glass, and Draco found himself
looking at a bulked up, bald, and angry man. “What?” he snarled, simply.
Draco tilted his head back, trying to seem utterly bored with the procedures, as if he did
this kind of thing every day. As if that was even possible. If he did it right, he would
never be able to do it again. “Lucius Malfoy,” he drawled slowly, “tell him I have a
message from his master.”
“His master?” The bouncer said cockily, trying to get the edge on the obviously younger
wizard by forcing him to stammer over saying something stupid like ‘You Know Who.’
But Draco was tired of games. When you lived like a game, there was always some
sadistic player with a rulebook you’d never heard of, in some foreign language so you
could never understand it anyway. And then people you loved got shot. “Voldemort,” he
hissed out the bouncer, enjoying how badly he jerked, and the way his eyes darted
frantically behind Draco, as if the Dark Lord was actually standing behind him.
“Y-yeah...” the bouncer breathed out, then took a steadying breath. “Sure.”
***
His father came out promptly, as everyone did when summoned by the Dark Lord. Draco
stood facing away from him, eyes crossed, fingers still on a death lock with the handle of
his wand. He felt something odd in his stomach, and he truly didn’t know if it was fear or
yearning. The lines between such things had been blown away with a 12. caliber shell.
He stood waiting for his father to speak first, the only thing he hadn’t planned being a
way to start their conversation. It didn’t take long. Patience was not one of Lucius
Malfoy’s greatest traits. “You have a message for me?”
Draco turned calmly, rolling his shoulders back to make sure the hood he wore on his
cloak wasn’t covering any part of his face. “Actually, no.”
His fathers eyes widened, and then narrowed into amazingly snake like slits. Draco knew
his father had actually trained the look... the fact he wasn’t able to speak Parseltongue
really bugged the hell out of his father. “Draco. Never do something like this again.” He
snarled, “you’re going to get yourself killed. What in the hell is this...oh. Yes. That.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, the only outward representation of the scream welling inside
him. That!? For a minute Draco no longer wanted to play this out, just wanted to leap
forward and lock his teeth onto his father’s throat, chewing right through the jugular vein
and letting the blood spray across his face. Maybe that would make the voice stop. But
no. This had to be done right. “Yes. That.” He said, and he smiled. “It was quite a job.”
His father said nothing, but he obviously caught the look in Draco’s eye. The boy saw his
father’s far too casual, pointless movement that ended up with his hands on his sleeve let
them both know that his father knew what this was about.
“But come now father, I don’t think you can take all the credit.” If anything, Draco’s eyes
grew a little brighter. “After all, I don’t think you found out where I was staying at all.
And I would like to know who told you.”
His father snorted. “What gives you the slightest idea that I would tell you that?”
Draco made no point of not letting his father know exactly what he was doing as he
pulled his wand out, and pointed it directly at the man. His father quickly fumbled with
his own wand, and pointed it right back. “Put that away,” he growled, “before you get
hurt.”
“Fine.” Draco said. “Who told you?”
His father, momentarily, seemed weakened. Draco saw his shoulders droop a bit, and
even his wand tilted downwards, towards the slightly less lethal area of Draco’s
collarbone. “You know who, Draco.”
Draco blinked at him. “I know who? Or You-Know-Who?”
“That isn’t funny, Draco,” his father said, looking nervous. Draco could not believe he
had once looked up to this man as god. He appeared as the weakest person on the planet
right now.
“You remember that game, Dad?” Draco asked, and it was obvious his father had no idea
what he was talking about, so Draco continued before Lucius could vocalize that fact.
“The one where you’d take me up to the first floor balcony that looked out on the
courtyard. I was seven, and it was a twenty foot drop. You’d tell me to jump.”
Recognition began to dawn on his father’s face, but there was still plenty of confusion.
“You told me I was a wizard, I would protect myself at the landing. But I couldn’t jump.
You’d urge me, Dad. You’d count, 1, 2, 3, JUMP! But I didn’t. And then you laughed at
me. You called me pathetic. And you went back inside, locking the door behind you. You
told me you’d let me back in the house when I jumped. But I didn’t. And I stayed out
there. All night. Until mum finally let me in because it was freezing out and I had almost
passed out.”
Lucius stared back at him coldly. “Yes,” he said, “I remember. My father did it with me.
I actually jumped though. What of it?”
Draco smiled. “Hey, Dad...”
“What!?” his father snapped, and Draco realized the man was sweating.
“1...2...3... JUMP!”
Green light flashed through the alleyway, but it wasn’t the only spell cast. More green
light, rushing the other way. His father always was good with counters. Green light
rushed over Draco, and he felt wind whipping around him, pulling his hair and his robes
backwards. Whoops, he thought giddily, looks like I made a little mistake. But something
was wrong. He was only seeing shadows, and he saw the shadow of his father collapse,
but his legs stayed under him. He felt some strong hands on his shoulder, holding him
down, holding him to the ground. He didn’t look over his shoulder, but he knew who it
was. Harry. Holding him down. Keeping him in. And suddenly the mystery of the Boy
Who Lived didn’t seem so odd, and Draco wondered if Harry remembered his parents
holding him up when Voldemort cast that final spell at him. Probably not. He would tell
him himself.
But not today.
The light faded, and the wind died down. Draco collapsed, but only because of
exhaustion. There was a throbbing pain in his forehead, and he clambered back to his
feet, clutching at it. Blood ran freely between his fingers, and he realized there was a
deep gash in his forehead, pointing right down between his eyes, and it was pouring
blood much more than naturally.
He was going to have a scar.
A/N: Nope, still not done. Were just totally jerking you around with this ‘last chapter’
stuff. Sorry bout it.