Chapter Two: Running
...two big city kids lost in a perfect world, of egotistic boys and lying little girls. And she knows, but she fakes it, that she’s doin’ okay....
An upbeat punk rock song abruptly ended Draco’s dream.
It had been a good one too, there had been these two gorgeous Veela, a desert island, chocol...er.. never mind.
The music from Draco’s charmed alarm clock had woken him at the usual 6:30 am on Monday morning, three weeks into the beginning of term at Hogwarts. Draco shook the sleep out of his head and rolled out of his sleek, queen size bed. He left the music on, enjoying the sounds of the only alternative WWN station on air.
It really is nice to still have my own room he thought as he slogged across the plush area rug to his walnut and ebony inlaid dresser to get his running togs.
Draco had had his own room here since second year. It was probably the only thing he could still thank Lucius for these days. His father had decided that he had wanted his son to stop ‘slumming it’. A Malfoy should not have to share a room, let alone with people so decidedly lower than himself, it just looked bad. So, all it took were a few strategic ‘donations’ to the Library, the Hospital Wing etc. and Draco was the owner of a small suite of rooms and back to living in the style Malfoys were accustomed to.
Recently, Malfoy the Younger had begun to view the importance of his wealth differently than Malfoy Senior. Money could only get you so much and so far, as exemplified by Lucius’ present predicament, but Draco did like the perks that money could provide.
In fact, he thought, smirking to himself money couldn’t buy happiness, but at least I can park my yacht next to it. He sighed sadly at the terrible accuracy of the comment.
Draco tied his last trainer lace and was about to head out the door but stopped to give himself a glance in the mirror.
If Father ever saw me like this, he probably reserve a nice padded room in St. Mungo’s for me, that, or curse the shit out of me. Yeah, that’s far more likely. But what do you expect, one can’t run in robes..
Draco shook his head and smirked at his reflection. Draco was wearing a black t-shirt, which he had ripped the sleeves off of, liking how it showed off his biceps, across it’s front, in large gothic script was the name of one of his favourite wizarding bands “Tortured”, although he also appreciated the irony of the label for himself. His shorts were black cargo shorts, (guaranteed to last 100 years, with bottomless pockets!) albeit a bit too baggy for running but he had absolutely refused to wear those nylon spandex contraptions he saw in the Magic Outdoors (for all your magical sporting needs!) Having his bare lower legs exposed to the eyes of the early risers of the student body was quite enough, he didn’t want to send any girls into a frenzy. He had cobbled together his running attire from a number of different designers, aiming to look polished, yet edgy. He had an image to portray, and spandex shorts were not involved.
Draco grabbed his dark green swacket and headed out of his room through the back entrance and into a seldom-used dungeon corridor.
The door to his room from the corridor was charmed to his voice, making it an extremely secure and private entrance, even if someone discovered his password, it wouldn’t open unless Draco himself, spoke it.
He made his way from there out through the empty corridors to the front doors of the school, where he exited and started jogging to warm up his muscles for his run ahead.
Draco had started running during the beginning of last summer. First, he had run to escape, just to get out of the Manor and clear his mind of all the chaos that had been waiting for him after he stepped off the train.
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Draco had made his way home by himself, as there had been no one waiting for him at the train station, not even a House Elf. He opened the large black oak front doors to find his house in terrible ruin, furniture thrown and splintered, papers strewn about and an eerie silence looming over it all.
The mess must be from the Auror raids when Lucius was caught, but I wonder why it hasn’t been cleaned up by now.. he thought as he continued into the Manor.
As a precaution, Draco had taken out his wand as he slowly climbed the grand staircase, keeping his eyes open. Down at the end of the East Wing he could see light coming from underneath one of the doors.
“Mother?” he questioned calmly.
No answer.
He drew closer to the door and called again. Only the silence met him. He slid his hand to the burnished silver knob and opened the door. His mother was sitting straight up in a wing chair in front of the dying fire. She looked like a shadow of her former self, once a beautiful prize wife, Narcissa was now an emaciated and dishevelled wretch without Lucius to ‘look’ after her.
She said nothing as Draco entered the room.
“Mother” he queried, trying to get her attention.
He raised one eyebrow at her present state, and saw her clutching the broken splinters of Lucius’ wand, a piece of parchment lay on her lap. It appeared that his father’s trial had finished, and the results were as expected.
“He’s never coming back Mother.” Draco said stonily “Of that, I can assure you.” He turned abruptly and stalked out of the room, turning towards his mother’s blank face before he exited.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish” he spat and continued on his way to his own suite of rooms in the West Wing to assess the damage there.
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The duration of the holiday had been anything but to Draco. His summer had been spent putting the Manor to rights, finding someone to look after his catatonic mother. As well as dealing with business matters that now rested solely on his young shoulders all because of Lucius’ prolonged indisposition. He also co-operated with the Ministry whenever possible, though on a personal level he loathed dimwitted Fudge and his sycophants, he attempted to get on, at least, amicable terms with them.
Basically, he spent the summer striving to resurrect the Malfoy name after Lucius’ monumental Fuck Up, as he had started calling his father’s capture and imprisonment in Azkaban. Lucius had dragged the Malfoy name through the mud so thoroughly that it took all of Draco’s energy and cunning to clean it up.
It was proving to be a more difficult task then he could have ever imagined.
Death Eaters, and Voldemort sympathizers had no sympathy for anyone clumsy enough to get caught, therefore they made it as difficult as they could for Draco when he tried to settle his father’s business entanglements with any of them. Draco had to constantly watch his back for curses and hexes from pissed off Death Eaters as he managed his business affairs throughout the Wizarding World.
Speaking of the rest of the Wizarding World, they were just as bad as the Death Eaters themselves, they treated him with disdain and hatred because of what his father had done.
Like father, like son, mark my words, was the stupid expression that raised his ire everywhere he went on business.
And so, he had started running, at first, only to quiet the hammering assault of demands required of him and then he ran to give himself time to plan for his own future, now so wonderfully separated from Lucius’. He was looking forward to this future, one where he would be powerful enough to evoke the respect of Muggle-Lover, Death-Eater and all those in between.
The first step he decided would be to study, knowledge is the only kind of real power. So he began to educate himself in the most difficult forms of magic. And from this, his journey to shape his own life began that summer, buried in books and running miles through the leafy green of the English countryside.
Draco sprinted the last 500 metres as he drifted out of his reverie. Walking back to the castle he caught his breath and made his way back to his room. Anyone passing by this Malfoy, would have been startled by his appearance, even after three weeks of this as his daily routine. The other early rising students had a hard time fitting this Malfoy into their pre- conceived stereotype. This Malfoy was rumpled and sweaty, walking calmly, rather than strutting, down the corridors. If one was very observant, and seldom were when it came to Draco Malfoy, they would have noticed that his normally pale ivory complexion had gained a decidedly rosy tint, and that his eyes, rather than being cold narrow slits of grey, were brighter, glinting with a hidden sense of purpose.
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Malfoy emerged from his room twenty minutes later looking like his immaculate former self; showered, shaved and polished. Though Draco had a new outlook, he believed that there was no reason why everyone else should be privy to it. At least not yet, not until he was assured he would succeed. So he acted towards the other inhabitants of Hogwarts as he always had, with cruelty, malice and laughter. It was easy for Draco to slip that mask on, everyone either feared him or ridiculed him for what his father had done. So he acted like they expected him to, just like his father had taught him.
As he walked to breakfast, his face shifted into its usual bored and arrogant expression, ready to face the hatred, but beyond his expression, behind the stormy eyes, his mind was roiling, planning, and though he refused to believe it: dreaming.
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A/N: swacket: a conglomeration of sweater and jacket, meant to describe a hooded sweatshirt that opens down the front via a zipper. Not sure if this really is a slang word, or just exists in my strange family...
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