I’ll show her, Draco thought, fuming as he burst through his common room door. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, what with his father in prison, Snape nagging at him day in and day out, and who could forget the Dark Lord’s foreboding presence at every waking and sleeping moment of his days?
Besides, where did she get off asking him to take the class seriously? Only he knew why he was truly taking the class. But he was second in his year, just barely behind that Mudblood Granger. He made top marks in all his classes. He’d even earned nine OWLS during fifth year.
His mother thought he’d make a brilliant mediwizard. He had contemplated the option many times, but he could never bring himself to work around that many wizards and witches, constantly griping and groaning about different ailments. Malfoys were brought up to be tough and a hospital was no place for people like that.
His father preferred he didn’t work, just as he himself had done. Lucius Malfoy had lived off of the luxuries of the Malfoy wealth without working hard to earn any of the galleons. He did however make quite a few choice investments that ensured ridiculous wealth was a permanent fixture in their family. He had spent much of time flexing his muscle power at Hogwarts, St. Mungo’s, and especially the Ministry itself.
What he truly wanted to do was play Quidditch professionally. Unfortunately, he had no idea where his future lay. There were many things expected of him by his parents, his schoolmates, other Death Eaters, and even the Dark Lord. Draco knew that Quidditch would not fit into the equation. For now he would just take things day by day.
Draco entered his dormitory and slammed the door behind him. He jumped onto his bed, swinging the hangings shut around him. He needed to think, to mull things over and calm down.
Why is a silly little blood traitor girl getting to me? He wondered. It was bad enough that he’d been paired with the know-it-all Summers, Potter worshipping Creevey, and Loony Lovegood. He also had to work with a Weasley. He had to admit her temper was quite amusing. She had a way with magic. His shin was still smarting, but he knew that Pansy, Daphne, nor any of the other Slytherin girls would ever think of performing such a foul move on him.
A soft creak broke into Draco’s thoughts. He slowly lifted himself up and peered out of his bed hangings. He could see Daphne Greengrass tiptoeing out the room, her robes hanging off of her untidily. He next saw Theodore Nott emerge from his bed, next to Draco’s, as he followed Daphne out.
Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was aware that his dorm mates engaged in sexual excursions with the Slytherin girls, but it always disturbed him nonetheless. His parents had taught him that it was improper to engage in any of the bedroom activities before marriage. They said it made a man less than a gentleman and a woman less than a lady.
Interestingly enough, Draco didn’t parade this information around and thus a certain reputation about him had developed somehow. He was known as a womanizer, a man who’d had his way with several women. This was not so, and Draco never bothered to debunk the rumors.
Draco lept out of his bed, and making sure his dorm was empty; he opened his chest of belongings at the foot of his bed. After some rummaging, he found a neatly wrapped handkerchief sandwiched between neatly pressed shirts. Being sure to keep the contents inside the handkerchief tucked inside, he fingered the object.
He shuddered for a moment, realizing what it was he held in his hands, with only a thin layer of silk separating himself from it.
Borgin leaned across the sales counter, leering at Draco curiously. “What is it you intend to do with this, Young Master Malfoy?”
Draco, who’s hands had been clasped against the edge of the counter to contain his anxiety at seeing the dark object, automatically withdrew them. “I should think that’s none of your concern!” he spat at the balding shopkeeper.
Borgin looked wounded and straightened himself. “Absolutely,” he apologized. Neither gentleman dared to touch the object, resting in a velvet pouch with a simple “B&B” embroidered on the outside.
“And you say it’s foolproof?” Draco asked, trying to sound confidant.
“Of course,” Borgin said simply. “One touch, if only for a moment, and it becomes fatal.” He said the last word with a slight shudder. Draco also noticed a small glint in his eye.
He thanked the shopkeeper and left. The place always gave him chills.
Draco could hear footsteps ascending the stairwell that led to his dormitory. He gave one last look at the silk handkerchief; with the initials LM stitched into it, and carefully laid it back in-between the two shirts. The door swung open when Draco heard the satisfying click of his chest closing.
“Oi, Malfoy,” Blaise called out, flopping down on Draco’s bed as though it was his own.
“Zabini,” Draco responded simply.
“What say you and I stow away and take our brooms out for a fly? “
Draco pondered the idea for a bit. He hadn’t been flying since Merlin knows when. It would be nice to take a go on his broom before Quidditch practice picked up.
“Sure,” Draco said, accepting Blaise’s hand as he helped him off the floor by his chest.
A slight jolt of pain seared through Draco’s arm as Blaise released it. He clutched it, gritting his teeth so as to not cry out in pain.
Blaise raised an eyebrow at him.
“It’s nothing,” Draco said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. The pain in his arm didn’t subside and Draco knew that he was calling him. “Hey, you go on ahead, I’ll meet you out on the field.”
Blaise shrugged. He was about to walk out the door when he stopped as though hesitating. He turned to face Draco. “You alright, mate? You’ve been a little off lately.”
“I’m fine, really,” Draco said, struggling to keep his composure.
Even Crabbe and Goyle had been asking him questions about his behavior. It was a problem if people were noticing that something was going on. He didn’t want his housemates asking him questions. They weren’t his friends. They couldn’t help him. He really was alone.
Besides, where did she get off asking him to take the class seriously? Only he knew why he was truly taking the class. But he was second in his year, just barely behind that Mudblood Granger. He made top marks in all his classes. He’d even earned nine OWLS during fifth year.
His mother thought he’d make a brilliant mediwizard. He had contemplated the option many times, but he could never bring himself to work around that many wizards and witches, constantly griping and groaning about different ailments. Malfoys were brought up to be tough and a hospital was no place for people like that.
His father preferred he didn’t work, just as he himself had done. Lucius Malfoy had lived off of the luxuries of the Malfoy wealth without working hard to earn any of the galleons. He did however make quite a few choice investments that ensured ridiculous wealth was a permanent fixture in their family. He had spent much of time flexing his muscle power at Hogwarts, St. Mungo’s, and especially the Ministry itself.
What he truly wanted to do was play Quidditch professionally. Unfortunately, he had no idea where his future lay. There were many things expected of him by his parents, his schoolmates, other Death Eaters, and even the Dark Lord. Draco knew that Quidditch would not fit into the equation. For now he would just take things day by day.
Draco entered his dormitory and slammed the door behind him. He jumped onto his bed, swinging the hangings shut around him. He needed to think, to mull things over and calm down.
Why is a silly little blood traitor girl getting to me? He wondered. It was bad enough that he’d been paired with the know-it-all Summers, Potter worshipping Creevey, and Loony Lovegood. He also had to work with a Weasley. He had to admit her temper was quite amusing. She had a way with magic. His shin was still smarting, but he knew that Pansy, Daphne, nor any of the other Slytherin girls would ever think of performing such a foul move on him.
A soft creak broke into Draco’s thoughts. He slowly lifted himself up and peered out of his bed hangings. He could see Daphne Greengrass tiptoeing out the room, her robes hanging off of her untidily. He next saw Theodore Nott emerge from his bed, next to Draco’s, as he followed Daphne out.
Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was aware that his dorm mates engaged in sexual excursions with the Slytherin girls, but it always disturbed him nonetheless. His parents had taught him that it was improper to engage in any of the bedroom activities before marriage. They said it made a man less than a gentleman and a woman less than a lady.
Interestingly enough, Draco didn’t parade this information around and thus a certain reputation about him had developed somehow. He was known as a womanizer, a man who’d had his way with several women. This was not so, and Draco never bothered to debunk the rumors.
Draco lept out of his bed, and making sure his dorm was empty; he opened his chest of belongings at the foot of his bed. After some rummaging, he found a neatly wrapped handkerchief sandwiched between neatly pressed shirts. Being sure to keep the contents inside the handkerchief tucked inside, he fingered the object.
He shuddered for a moment, realizing what it was he held in his hands, with only a thin layer of silk separating himself from it.
Borgin leaned across the sales counter, leering at Draco curiously. “What is it you intend to do with this, Young Master Malfoy?”
Draco, who’s hands had been clasped against the edge of the counter to contain his anxiety at seeing the dark object, automatically withdrew them. “I should think that’s none of your concern!” he spat at the balding shopkeeper.
Borgin looked wounded and straightened himself. “Absolutely,” he apologized. Neither gentleman dared to touch the object, resting in a velvet pouch with a simple “B&B” embroidered on the outside.
“And you say it’s foolproof?” Draco asked, trying to sound confidant.
“Of course,” Borgin said simply. “One touch, if only for a moment, and it becomes fatal.” He said the last word with a slight shudder. Draco also noticed a small glint in his eye.
He thanked the shopkeeper and left. The place always gave him chills.
Draco could hear footsteps ascending the stairwell that led to his dormitory. He gave one last look at the silk handkerchief; with the initials LM stitched into it, and carefully laid it back in-between the two shirts. The door swung open when Draco heard the satisfying click of his chest closing.
“Oi, Malfoy,” Blaise called out, flopping down on Draco’s bed as though it was his own.
“Zabini,” Draco responded simply.
“What say you and I stow away and take our brooms out for a fly? “
Draco pondered the idea for a bit. He hadn’t been flying since Merlin knows when. It would be nice to take a go on his broom before Quidditch practice picked up.
“Sure,” Draco said, accepting Blaise’s hand as he helped him off the floor by his chest.
A slight jolt of pain seared through Draco’s arm as Blaise released it. He clutched it, gritting his teeth so as to not cry out in pain.
Blaise raised an eyebrow at him.
“It’s nothing,” Draco said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. The pain in his arm didn’t subside and Draco knew that he was calling him. “Hey, you go on ahead, I’ll meet you out on the field.”
Blaise shrugged. He was about to walk out the door when he stopped as though hesitating. He turned to face Draco. “You alright, mate? You’ve been a little off lately.”
“I’m fine, really,” Draco said, struggling to keep his composure.
Even Crabbe and Goyle had been asking him questions about his behavior. It was a problem if people were noticing that something was going on. He didn’t want his housemates asking him questions. They weren’t his friends. They couldn’t help him. He really was alone.
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