Chapter 2: The Nightmare
Draco stood at the door to his parents' lavish estate, his posture uncharacteristically slumped. Malfoy Manor had recently been filled with an exhaustive number of undesirable – and unwelcome – guests. He snorted humorlessly at the stark contrast between last year's holiday and this one. No longer would he find Christmas morning a source of joy. He'd abandoned what was left of his childish material needs.
He strayed from his usual confident stride as he attempted to pad softly to the dining room. He hoped not to attract attention, although he should have known that would be impossible.
"Ah, Draco!"
The Dark Lord curled a long, bony finger his way, beckoning him to sit at his left hand. Draco warily complied, taking his place beside his father. Across the table, his mother, as impeccable as always, nodded ever so slightly in solidarity. Her hands were shaking.
It is said that sons look to their father for protection, and to their mother for comfort, but Lucius's eyes, averted from his son, were emotionless and cold.
No, Draco thought. My father's protection no longer applies.
"Draco, you seem so unhappy, and on such a joyful occasion!" Voldemort exclaimed, goading him with false sincerity. "Are you, perhaps, finding your task unsavory?"
"No my Lord!" Bellatrix interrupted, rising from her seat at Voldemort's right hand. "It is an honor, a privilege for our family to serve you!"
Voldemort leaned towards her, his long black nails scraping along her jaw to caress her cheek. Bellatrix shuddered in response, looking as though she would explode in ecstasy.
"Do you agree, Lucius?" he asked. "Is it an honor for the Malfoys to serve Lord Voldemort?"
"Yes my Lord, the highest honor," Lucius said instantly, reduced to a mere puppet. Draco decided then that his already waning affection for Lucius had evaporated. He only resented his father.
"Draco, Draco," Voldemort continued, raising a goblet to the light and fingering the jeweled M of the Malfoy family crest. "How are you progressing with your . . . assignment?"
Draco swallowed hard, trying to meet the Dark Lord's eyes. He did not wish to show fear or uncertainty in front of Lord Voldemort, though it was inevitable.
"My Lord, I – "
To his relief, the heavy wooden doors opened and Jugson, a Death Eater assigned to the Ministry of Magic, burst into the room.
"My Lord, we have fai – " he started, then corrected himself. "We were unable to gain control of Meadowes."
Seeing Voldemort's dispassionate expression, Jugson hurriedly continued, "We will locate him shortly, no doubt. He is not so skilled that he would succeed in hiding for long."
"Perhaps not . . . and yet," the Dark Lord sneered, "You are not so skilled that you would succeed in restraining him."
With a flick of his wand, Voldemort raised Jugson in the air by his ankle, allowing him to rotate him slowly. Draco, seated close to where Jugson had been standing, tried to block out the hollow echo of his whimpering. Wand still raised, Voldemort turned back to his youngest servant.
"You have nothing to fear, Draco," he said silkily, "if you do as I ask. If you do not, however, you'll find that Lord Voldemort is . . . not so merciful."
And with a slice of his wand he slit Jugson's throat, his body falling limp onto the floor.
There was so much blood . . .
Draco Malfoy jerked awake, gasping for air. It had been the same dream – same memory – every night since he had returned to school.
His breathing was labored, uneven. He doubted he would fall back asleep.
Draco had made too many mistakes already, and with every passing day he became more aware of the likelihood that he would not succeed in pleasing the Dark Lord. Still, his mother and father's lives depended on him; as did his, he thought, instinctively rubbing his throat.
Draco found no solace in the Prefects' dorms tonight. He slipped out quietly, making his way to the dungeons.
He was surprised to find the Slytherin common room still dimly lit; he hadn't expected anyone else to be awake at this hour. He hoped it was Theo, or even Blaise; unfortunately, he was frustrated to find the dark features of Pansy Parkinson materializing from one of the rear-facing armchairs.
"Draco!" she purred. "Just what I was craving."
Draco attempted to conceal a wince. Among her numerous other faults, Pansy also lacked the art of subtlety. Perhaps it was not so wise that he'd fucked her earlier that year. It was the impulsive act of a simpler time; a time before he'd become intimately familiar with catastrophic failure and crippling guilt. She was a remnant of that time, and not in a good way.
"Pansy," he said simply in response. "A bit late, don't you think?"
She shrugged. "Daphne is snoring."
She sauntered over to him, placing her hands on his chest and attempting – and failing, he thought – to smile seductively.
"Conveniently for us," she said, "Everyone is asleep. "
Draco took hold of her wrists to lightly push her away. "I don't know, Pansy – I'm really not in the mood."
He braced himself as she scowled threateningly. Per usual, her long black hair looked harsh against her pale skin, framing her face in darkness. The problem wasn't so much that Pansy was unattractive; the larger issue was that she was perhaps too aroused by the nobility of his pureblood name, and the way that their families had so unabashedly encouraged their relationship was disturbing. He had no desire to marry Pansy Parkinson. He had no use for someone whose mindless devotion, much like his father's, now disgusted him rather than empowered him.
It had been a much simpler time when he hadn't had to consider such things.
She pursed her thin, pale lips. "Looking to replace me? Maybe with that filthy mudblood you're so conveniently partnered with?"
He rolled his eyes. Pansy was constantly jealous, but this accusation was beyond unmerited. It was completely beyond consideration, not to mention entirely out of his control.
He thought briefly of his interaction with Granger earlier that day, recalling her silly rage at his apathy toward their totally irrelevant school project. As if I don't have more pressing issues at hand, he had thought. He pictured Granger's flushed cheeks and betrayed himself with a tiny smirk.
"So you do want that filthy, whorish mudblood!" Pansy hissed. "You are a disgrace to your name, Draco Malfoy."
He sat down on the leather couch, facing her. This argument was exhausting in itself; perhaps, in the end, he would manage some sleep tonight.
"Calm yourself Parkinson," he said tiredly. "As if that would ever happen. As if I would stoop that low."
She smiled then, her accusations suddenly forgotten (How quickly she forgave! Had she no pride? Draco thought, shaking his head). She climbed onto his lap, placing her knees on either side of his hips as she rocked back and forth on him. She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his face into her not inconsiderable breasts.
He felt himself get hard; he was a man, after all, and one with a pressing need to unwind. She unbuttoned his trousers, reaching her hand under the band of his boxer briefs to take his – again, not inconsiderable – member in her palm.
She inhaled sharply, gasping. "I didn't think it was possible, but you're as big as I remembered," she breathed.
He smirked again at that, choosing to ignore the cliché, and placed his hand under her skirt, cupping her arse. She leaned forward, lips pursed; a quick turn of his head landed the unsuccessful kiss on his jaw.
Is she delusional enough to think this is romance?
With one hand he tore her panties aside, making room for him to lazily stroke her clit. Slipping two fingers in and slowly rotating them, he decided she was ready for him; one look at her, head thrown back as she moaned, would have easily told him as much.
He lifted her slightly and lowered her onto his cock, perhaps not as gently as he should have. He bucked into her rhythmically as he used her waist to maneuver her body up and down his shaft. He wasn't going slowly by any means, but she didn't seem to mind; he felt her close around him as she stuttered his name.
Seeing her face contorted in ecstasy was suddenly very distasteful to Draco, but at this point, he'd come too far to simply walk away. He picked her up, pulling out of her briefly, and turned her so that her back was to him. He reentered her aggressively as she leaned forward, seating herself on his lap and using his knees to brace herself.
He grasped a thick handful of her hair, pulling it roughly. He ignored her repeated strangled cry of pleasure while he encircled her hardened nipple with his thumb. As he continued to fill her with unenthusiastic thrusts, he found his mind wandering.
He had chosen a particularly difficult draught for Snape's assignment because he knew it might be necessary soon; he had no actual reason to suspect he would need to cleanse or heal a flesh wound, but it was certainly more useful than, say, something to reanimate a petrified person– after all, anyone could make a mandrake draught and as far as he knew there were no more basilisks wandering the castle. Besides, if anyone was going to be able to keep up with him in potions, it was almost definitely Hermione Granger.
She was so ridiculous today, all riled up over nothing, he thought again. Granger was confusing Potter and Weasley's incompetence with his.
Granger's hair had been tied back in a low bun today; perhaps that was why Draco was able to see her face clearly. Her features were petite – kind of dainty, he thought – and her brown eyes, widened with disbelief as she glared at him, were difficult to look away from. She may be a mudblood, but she was still a girl, and he was still apt to notice. How could he help but take in the slight upturn of her coral lips, or the flush of her golden skin?
Draco was jerked back to the present as he suddenly and unexpectedly found his release, roughly holding Pansy still as he came. He was sputtering from his orgasm even after she finally stood, and was just barely alert enough to return his spent cock to his trousers. Pansy looked pleased with herself – because of course, how could she know whose face had flashed in front of him at the moment his arousal came to a head?
He stood. "I have to get back."
She nodded, stepping forward to stroke his cheek. "Will I see you again soon?"
He considered it, tilting his head.
"No."
And with that, he returned to his bed.
. . . . . . . . .
"Hermione."
She opened her eyes groggily. "Enngghh?"
"Hermione, are you awake?"
She rolled onto her back, groaning in frustration. "Go away, Ron."
"I thought you might like an early breakfast," he called from the other side of her bedroom door, unfazed.
She hadn't slept well at all, or else she would have already risen by now. First she'd woken up to the sound of a door closing down the hall, and again perhaps an hour or two later. The disturbance had caused her active mind to run wild, ticking off the potion ingredients necessary for a draught of Sanare Pura. She currently had, she estimated, only about 30% of what they would need, and if Malfoy failed to match her in skill, the likelihood of her gaining top marks would be slim.
She still couldn't get over her curiosity of what could possibly have possessed Malfoy to choose such a complex potion. She'd never worked with him before, so at best she could only hope from the results she'd seen – and his Outstanding O.W.L. – that he would be capable in that area. And even if he was, the potions they had mastered up until that year had been nowhere near as demanding as this one; it consisted of a few materials they would probably have to grow themselves, and it was highly sensitive to timing and temperature, which meant they would both have to be there to monitor it regularly.
She groaned again, grabbing her pillow and throwing it at the door.
"Well?"
"Fine!" she barked. "I'm getting dressed."
She sat up slowly, stretching. As a child she had gone to a muggle public school, and now she had a unique appreciation for the simplicity of the Hogwarts uniform. It was a simple pleasure just knowing she didn't need much more than a few minutes to get dressed.
She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror as she stripped to her underwear and started to dress. She stood then, scrutinizing herself from front to back.
She wasn't displeased; her golden tan from summer had faded, but some of the glow remained, and the evidence was there from the tiny spattering of freckles along her collarbone. Her shoulders were narrow, and her waist was narrower. She frowned slightly when she placed her hands around the cups of her bra. She supposed her breasts could be bigger, but they were still proportional and full; it was a pleasing overall effect.
She had developed a body she was proud of, though she kept it hidden under her usual uniform. She thought perhaps she was saving it; what would Ron think, if he saw it? Or Malfoy?
Malfoy?!
She threw a hand across her mouth with a petrified gasp. As far as she was concerned, she was more likely to light Malfoy on fire than she was to strip down in front of him.
She hurriedly threw on the rest of her clothes and straightened her duvet.
Completely ridiculous, she thought. Malfoy! Never.
"Mione, I'll meet you downstairs, Harry's already gone down – " Ron mumbled, his voice fading.
"Ronald Weasley!" she yelled, throwing the door open. "I may never forgive you for waking me up if you – "
She stopped short as she walked directly into a tall, dark figure, clad in emerald green.
"It's barely fucking morning, Granger," Malfoy snapped. "Please try to contain your disappointment in Weasley until at least the afternoon. I know it's difficult. I do it every day."
"Shut up, Malfoy." She was already frustrated over her lack of sleep. "You are clearly also awake, you don't need – "
She stopped short, taking in his pallid face. "Did you even sleep?"
"It's none of your business what I do, Granger. If you're in the mood to be nosy you'd better catch up with the Potter-Weasley traveling circus," he growled, turning away.
"Hey – hey, stop!" she said, grabbing his arm. He turned his head slowly, looking first at her hand, and then directly at her, his eyes narrowed threateningly. She pulled away quickly, horrified with herself.
"And what is it, exactly," he said through clenched teeth, "that you could possibly still need from me that would be worth my time, mudblood?"
He'd used the derogatory word to rile her up, she knew. There was no enthusiasm behind it, no real punch. He clearly expected her to leave her alone purely because he'd said it, but he was wrong.
"Like it or not we have a potion to brew. I want top marks, and if you don't play nice, I'll learn how to turn you into a ferret by myself this time," she said, poking the bear. She could hit below the belt, too.
He looked away from her then, feigning apathy. "We're not children anymore, Granger," he said warningly, his voice low. "I'll meet you this evening."
"That potion – "
"It can only be made at night."
"I know, I've read the text th – "
"This evening," he said curtly, turning to leave.
She hated Draco Malfoy. She hated that he was constantly interrupting her, as though his time was more worthwhile than hers. She hated the incessant smirk on his stupid face. She hated that he was so acutely aware of the girls that threw themselves at him (and more than that, she hated those girls for throwing themselves at him). She hated how he constantly belittled her. She hated that he thought his words had any effect on her. She hated how he constantly felt he could simply turn his back on her without a second glance.
She had continued following him with her eyes, fuming, plotting to throw knives into his retreating back. So she was watching when, right before he turned the corner, he paused, inclining his head ever so slightly in her direction. He met her eyes for the briefest possible moment before he snapped his head forward and increased his stride. It dawned on her, after he disappeared, that she had not been meant to catch his hesitant glance.
She brought her hand to her lips, running her finger along the ghost of a victorious smile from their verbal sparring. She instantly grimaced as she realized that, right now, what she hated the most about Malfoy was that smile. It was her unwanted evidence of the residual enjoyment he had left.
. . . . . . . . .
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
Also, thanks for the review I got for Chapter One! It wasn't positive but it's still really cool that people are reading and taking the time to share their thoughts. All valid points but I hope you stick around for the rest of the story, because I think you'll find your criticism was premature . . .