Fourth Year
Harry felt a now-familiar rush as he boarded the Hogwarts Express – the feeling of returning home after a long holiday. It was now his fourth time riding the train to Hogwarts, following a summer at The Burrow and an intense Quidditch World Cup, and the train was a mass of life as students moved continuously as a murmuration of starlings or a shoal of fish might do. Sounds and bodies pressed in from all sides as he, Ron, and Hermione pushed through the masses, finally escaping into an empty carriage as the train began to move out of the station. Mrs Weasley and Charlie found their way to the window of the carriage and managed to exchange a few parting words before the train peeled away from the platform, and they became tiny dots before disappearing from sight. Once they began to pick up speed the trio lapsed into easy conversation, and were presently joined by Dean and Seamus, followed by Neville. Of course, it wasn't long before the conversation turned to the Quidditch World Cup, which all present, save Neville, had attended. Neville didn't take part in most of the Quidditch talk, but as the conversation turned to the aftermath of the game, he began to gain interest.
"So you were all there? What happened? I heard that You-Know-Who came back, but there've been all sorts of rumours. My Gran says that the papers can't be trusted with telling the truth."
"Well, she's right. They exaggerated everything in the Prophet." Seamus began, "Dean and I were with me Mam in a tent on the other side of the campsite, so luckily we weren't right in the middle of it. But we could see fire and stuff, and hear some of the screams."
"We were right in the thick of it," Said Ron, shuddering theatrically. "My Dad woke us up in the middle of the night and told us to go to the forest, and on the way there we actually saw the Death-Eaters. They were setting tents on fire and things like that, and they had this muggle family suspended-"
"It was really awful," Cut in Hermione "They were playing about with the family, making the kids spin around upside-down and things. It made me feel sick to watch it... and just because they were muggles."
"We got to the forest along with my brothers and sister, but we lost them for a while. Then Malfoy comes along, and guess what he said?" Ron paused for effect "He as good as told us his Dad was part of the Death-Eaters group."
"Seriously?" Neville sounded even more scared than usual at the mention of Malfoy.
"Yeah. Anyway, the slimy git..."
Harry had tuned out of the conversation at the mention of Draco, seeing as it was something of a touchy subject. All through their second year it had been fine, and Draco had treated Harry's friends politely as he'd said he would. But through third year Draco had become steadily rudder, and even mean, to the point where Harry's friends simply refused to understand that he just wasn't like that with Harry, and Harry had been forced to accept that Draco seemed to have become, to put it mildly, an arse.
When Harry had confronted Draco, he had become moody and muttered something about "His father" and "Seeming too friendly", and then continued to make the potion they had been set without another word. The argument this had caused had kept them silent and sullen towards each other for several weeks, until they had eventually began to talk again. Despite his friends' strong dislike of the Slytherin, it was just easier to be on good terms with him. But Harry wouldn't put up with Draco's jibes, especially not when they were directed at his friends, and this had resulted in a rocky half-friendship. It was complicated, and Harry generally chose not to partake in conversations about him.
"Ron," Said Dean suddenly, pulling Harry from his thoughts, "What the hell is up with your owl?"
Pig was, as usual, incredibly overexcited. The tiny owl flapped around his cage and made a surprising amount of noise for such a small animal. Ron groaned. "That's Pigwidgeon. We call him Pig. He's a bit mental." Ron grabbed his horrible new dress robes and threw them over Pig's cage to muffle the tweeting noise.
"Weasley, what are those." A drawling voice came from the compartment door, and the group turned to see Draco, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, standing in the entrance. "Wait, don't tell me you were actually thinking of wearing them!"
Wow, Draco got tall over the summer, thought Harry. However, what he said was:
"Piss off, Malfoy."
"Nice to see you too, Potter." He surveyed the carriage. "So. Anyone think they're going to enter?"
"Enter what, Malfoy?" Growled Ron.
"Wait, so you mean you don't know?" Asked Draco, feigning surprise. "Well, I suppose your father isn't important enough to be told these things. My Father found out ages ago, I think he may even have been the first to know." Draco continued pompously. "Of course, he told me right away."
"Told you what?"
Draco just smiled and began to leave. "I suppose you'll find out eventually. Nice robes, Weasley."
Only Harry caught the wink Draco sent him on his way out.
0o0oDraco0o0o
Draco made his way back to his carriage, laughing with Crabbe and Goyle about the Gryffindors' lack of knowledge. Of course Draco felt bad about taunting the Gryffindors – he always did – but he didn't show this as he sat down next to Pansy and threw his arm over her shoulders. It wasn't how he felt, but how his father and peers felt, that mattered. And if they thought he had been fraternising, there would be consequences. As his father had put it - it was one thing to be on good terms, but another to genuinely be friends with Gryffindors. Draco forced himself not to think about the summer before third year, when his father had found out that he had dared to be genuinely nice to the Gryffindors. The unfairness of his father's inconsistency angered Draco to the point that he had actually retaliated when his father had hit him, had shouted, asking what on earth Lucius wanted him to do. This had been a bad idea. Draco winced, and returned to the conversation.
"I think there's going to be some sort of flying challenge." Said Pansy. "The champions will have to complete something on a broom."
"My mum says the tournament will be as much about logic and planning as about skill with practical magic." Said Blaise. "There'll be mind games, no doubt about that."
"What do you think, Draco?"
Draco shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe something to do with the Forbidden Forest?" He hadn't really given the tasks much thought.
"Whatever it is, it's worth the prize. Ten thousand galleons!"
"As if you need ten thousand galleons, Blaise. Your family would see that as pocket change."
"You can talk, Pans."
0o0o
Draco watched idly as the new first years were sorted into their houses, clapping only when a kid was sorted into Slytherin. It wasn't that he didn't care, but he found watching the sorting pretty boring, and always had. He watched a newly sorted Gryffindor - Dennis Creevey - ogling Harry's scar with awe written across his face, noting Harry's expression of resigned annoyance, before realising that the last student had just been sorted, and tucking into the food that appeared. He ate hungrily; there hadn't been much food going his way over the summer. Even Blaise had noticed that he had lost weight. He planned to put some of it back on, because when he looked in the mirror he got the unwelcome feeling of not recognising oneself, and the thin boy with sickly skin who stared back at him was a constant reminder of that Summer's events.
Eventually, the feast came to an end and, as usual, Dumbledore rose and tapped his glass lightly with a spoon to get the students' attention.
"Good evening, and a warm welcome to all our new first years. As usual, I have a few announcements to make before you all retire to your dorms. Mr Filch has asked me to remind you that fizzing whizbies are now banned, due to an unfortunate event which occurred last year." Draco noticed that the Weasley twins found this particularly funny and shared knowing looks, "Also, for any first years who do not know, and anyone else who may have forgotten, curfew is nine pm sharp. Any student caught out of bounds will be punished severely." Again, the twins shared amused looks. "Finally and most importantly," continued Dumbledore, "I am excited to inform you that this year, Quidditch is going to be replaced by-"
Pandemonium broke loose across the hall as students furiously objected to the cancellation of Quidditch. Draco was amongst them, yelling at Dumbledore despite the fact that his voice was lost in the cacophony. How dare Dumbledore even think to cancel Quidditch? How dare he take something so important away from them? Dumbledore seemed to prepare to shout over the commotion, but as he opened his mouth a loud bang came from the back of the hall. The students whipped around to see that the doors to the great hall had been opened, and a man stood silhouetted against the darkness outside. As the Great Hall suddenly fell very quiet, he began to walk between the house tables towards the front of the hall. He looked very odd: stooped, limping, and with a face that looked to be carved from wood. His nose looked as if it had been broken several times. It seemed to take him a very long time to reach the teachers' table, but when he finally arrived he walked straight to Dumbledore. The two exchanged a few whispered sentences before Dumbledore straightened his back and again addressed the congregation.
"Students of Hogwarts, I would like to introduce you to your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher: Mad-Eye Moody." Whispering sounded across the hall but before Draco could consult Blaise on the development, Dumbledore's voice came again. "As I was saying, Quidditch will not be taking place this year." Dumbledore raised his voice to be heard over the students. "This is because, for the first time in recent history, we will be hosting the Triwizard tournament." A pause. "For those of you who have not heard of the tournament, allow me to explain. Three magic institutions will each choose one student to take part in three tasks; each of which will test the student's magical prowess, courage, and ability to think in the presence of danger. The winner of the tournament shall receive glory for their school, and ten thousand galleons in prize money. The tournament shall involve Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons, and will commence in October. Finally, please note that only students over the age of seventeen may enter. Now, I'm sure you all cannot wait to discuss this in your respective common rooms, so I bid you goodnight."
That night Draco lay awake in bed, the now full-grown Manimi finding her familiar place coiled over Draco's shoulder. Draco couldn't speak parseltongue, but he knew Manimi could understand him when he spoke because Harry, who could speak to the snake, had told him so. He often confided her, telling her the secrets he usually didn't dare voice, and fully confident that she would keep them - for who would she tell? The snake was very attached to Draco, sometimes slinking into his satchel and letting Draco carry her around the school with him. Draco guessed that Manimi liked the warmth of the schoolbag, and luckily the snake was only about five feet long; small enough to fit into it.
Having cast a silencing charm over his bed long ago, Draco talked freely to the half-asleep snake as he lay in bed. He told her about the unexpected age limit on the Triwizard tournament, pondered who the other school champions would be, and stated his sadness that Quidditch would be cancelled this year.
"But that doesn't mean I can't go flying, Manimi. I can still do that whenever I want. I'll miss the competition, though. Are you tired of me talking? I'm sorry. I'll give you some peace now, though."
Draco disliked taking potions or medicine for his insomnia, as they made him feel even more groggy and crabby the following day than if he hadn't taken anything. He preferred just staring at the ceiling, talking to Manimi, drawing, or even just taking a minute to himself for once. Anyway, his sleep was often punctuated by nightmares of his father, monstrous re-enactments of some of the worst 'punishments' he had suffered. Most frequent was the flashback to a more violent episode he had undergone when he was only nine years old. It was the cause of the twisted scar on his stomach, the reason why he never changed with the rest of the boys, the reason behind the silencing charm over his bunk. After waking up screaming once or twice, he figured it might benefit everyone if he shut himself up.
When Draco didn't have nightmares, his dreams were relatively normal. He had about three hours of sleep a night, which could usually be counted on to get him through the next day well enough. Especially now that he knew a spell to cover the bags under his eyes. His mother, a fellow insomniac, had taught him several 'Pick-Me-Up' spells, which he used regularly. On really bad nights, though, Draco sat with a sketchbook and tried to forget about the nightmare he had just had by drawing. He drew Manimi, or the things in his head, or sometimes the nightmares he had. He had never shown anyone the sketchbooks he kept within the hole in his mattress, hidden via a concealment charm. They were his, and only his. The one thing he could control in his controlled life.