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Aurel
@aurelkwlx
I read stuff and sometimes write stuff.
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This is a little story I came up with, told from the perspective of Pansy, inspired by @hayes_gens art (1/4):
Pansy Parkinson had initially not been very excited about being a Slytherin. She was a pure-blood, and her father had been a Slytherin too, but her mother, gentle as she was, had been a Hufflepuff. Silently, Pansy had hoped that the Sorting Hat would recognise which parent she had taken after more.
Arriving at Hogwarts and seeing the long, imposingly large tables in the Great Hall, one for each of the houses, she couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the looks the students in black and green threw at the newcomers. Slytherin, a house known for ambition and excellence, the heritage of pure blood and traditions that seemed to be as old as magic itself, had not seemed like a good fit for her at all.
But when that old, crumpled piece of leathery headwear was placed on her head, she had barely a moment to form a thought before it yelled:
“Slytherin!”
Pansy remembered how her heart had sunk as a cold round of applause, punctuated by only a few isolated cheers, washed over her from the students she was now to call her peers.
All the other houses had cheered and hollered, whistled and whooped when one of the new students was selected to become one of them. But the Slytherins simply applauded. Nobody shook her hand as she took a seat; nobody patted her on the back. The most she got was a curt and polite “Welcome.”
She took solace in the fact that, at the very least, they treated all the other students selected to join their house the same.
All except one.
When the Sorting Hat was placed on the head of Dracaena Malfoy, the table erupted in cheers and thundering applause. Even then, Pansy had known why. Everybody knew the name “Malfoy”.
One of the oldest noble houses in the British Isles, as well as one of the richest. Highly respected, depending on who was asked.
Pansy watched the pretty blonde girl, who seemed to have captured the adoration of all Slytherins on her very first day, walk down the hall and take her place just a few students away from her.
What stuck with her most was the expression on the girl’s face: a smile as if she had expected nothing less than the treatment she was given.
For the first month or so, Dracaena and Pansy rarely crossed paths. This was not particularly surprising to Pansy at the time. What could a girl like Dracaena possibly want with someone like her?
In general, Pansy had struggled to make friends. She had been short for her age and not particularly pretty. Her clothes were ill-fitting, her teeth a little crooked and worst of all, she was incredibly shy.
In a house known not just for the pursuit of excellence, but also for the arrogance that often came with it, it did not take long until the bullying started.
Other students would tease her, hide her books, or play nasty pranks on her.
One day, Goyle and some of the other students had cornered her, and the big, lanky boy had announced to everyone that he was going to try the levitation spell he had recently learned on Pansy, to see how high into the air he could throw her.
Pansy, terrified of heights, had started to cry as she lifted off the ground.
Everyone around her was laughing at her misery.
Then Dracaena appeared. Even though she was a girl no older than Pansy, she gave Goyle a dressing-down so thorough that he seemed to shrink with every word she threw at him.
“Unbecoming of a pure-blood,” she had called his behaviour, a shame to his entire family. She had even started loudly wondering how many Muggles his family line must have secretly hidden for him to treat a fellow pure-blood, a girl no less, in such a way.
Dracaena made every one of them apologise to Pansy and swear never to do such a thing again. “We are Slytherins,” she had said. “We stick together.”
The next day, Goyle had even given Pansy a Chocolate Frog as he mumbled an apology, probably less because he genuinely cared than because he hoped she would mention it to Dracaena.
She seemed to be everything that Pansy was not. She was aloof, pretty, confident to the point of arrogance and could show a fierceness that even seemed to intimidate some of her teachers.
She had a tongue so sharp that Pansy had seen her wipe smug grins off the faces of students three years her senior. When she spoke, she expected others to listen with a certainty that only aristocracy could bestow.
And she made sure that nobody ever forgot who her family was and that she was exactly that.
Dracaena was also fiercely competitive, studying and practising any activity she engaged in as if only the best would ever suffice. She rarely bragged about anything that she was not actually good at and she was by no means humble.
Pansy had admired Dracaena long before she ever spoke a word to her. And she had not been the only one.
Since the day the heir to the Malfoy name had entered the school grounds, she had always been surrounded by people trying to gain her favour. Performative acts of kindness seemed to fall into Dracaena’s lap, and her classmates always seemed willing to do what she told them to.
But Pansy did not have anything to give Dracaena, apart from her gratitude for saving her and her silent admiration.
Crabbe and Goyle were the primary members of her little circle of followers, flanking Dracaena like a pair of henchmen wherever she went. Looking back, Pansy felt sure that their families had told them to stay in her good graces as soon as they arrived.
All the more surprising, then, when Dracaena started taking Pansy under her wing. At first, it had been little things, like saving a spot for her at the table in the Great Hall, waiting for her after class, or simply shooting an icy glare at anyone who tried to bully her.
Once or twice, she even slid Pansy the notes she had taken in class and helped her learn and practise.
Pansy had been quite suspicious at first. Why would someone like her, who was everything Pansy felt she could never be, want to be her friend?
She suspected a ploy, some sort of planned act of cruelty, and at first Dracaena seemed to perform these little acts of kindness without really acknowledging Pansy very much. But still, no malicious acts of any kind followed.
Maybe, Pansy had thought, the Malfoy girl was just trying to make herself look good by bestowing her prized favour on the ugly duckling of Slytherin.
One day, Pansy decided to try to show her gratitude by giving Dracaena a small bag filled with the cookies her mother had sent her.
She had not expected much. Perhaps a short, grateful acknowledgement. A quick smile.
Instead, Dracaena beamed with happiness, giving Pansy, who was almost a head shorter than her, a hug so strong it lifted her off her feet.
From then on, Dracaena seemed to open up to her more and more. She would talk about her family, her home, the large gardens they had, the trips they took to France in summer to visit relatives.
And when nobody was looking, she would talk about how she was afraid of monsters and ghouls.
How her father had once caught her sneaking out a slice of her birthday cake to give to one of the house-elves.
How she was terrified of drowning, ever since she was a child.
Pansy wished she had even half as many interesting things to say, but still, every time she talked, Dracaena listened, smiling, giggling at funny mishaps and even consoling her about things that made her sad.
By the end of the year, Pansy and Dracaena had become best friends.
And as the year had progressed, Harry Potter had become quite a frequent subject. Oh, how much Dracaena hated him.
The boy who had spurned her, rejected her offer of friendship, when so many of her classmates seemed to be bending over backwards to have that chance. Silently, so as not to offend her friend, Pansy had wondered if Dracaena would have been friends with Potter the way she was with her, or if she’d have preferred him to keep Crabbe and Goyle company.
Maybe Dracaena would have liked a red Gryffindor uniform, flanked by the green of Slytherin, as a sort of aesthetically pleasing trio.
Dracaena is a fellow yearner
"Men are just our other halves. The idea that I should judge something as a 'mans' ' fiction is ridiculous. It is the human soul screaming into a blank page, etching its' cries into lettering."
Quite profound, especially when you consider this girl is physically mute.
I disagree.
The male desire to see romance is perfectly in line with the female desire to see romance. One half cannot stand without the other.
We've been so slop fed, for so long, that our culture has fractured to a point where the idea of matrimony/pregnancy/gender roles are viewed as not normal. They are normal. They are our foundation.
Men want to save a woman, to claim her as theirs, and to be her only love. Women want to find their prince, to know he can't look away from her, to carry their child.
Men are just our other halves. The idea that I should judge something as a 'mans' ' fiction is ridiculous. It is the human soul screaming into a blank page, etching its' cries into lettering. Whether a man wrote it, a woman wrote it, who it was meant for initially, or who it identified with doesn't matter.
In my opinion, evil can sometimes be evil for evils sake.
Some people really just want to dominate, power for the sake of it.
That being said, the longer I thought about the Harry Potter villains, the more I thought it was funny how Rowling basically left the entire angle of "We live in a world where a single Muggle aware of us can spell the apocalypse and for some reason our peers insist on intermingling with them" on the table.
The ideal antagonist should force a genuine philosophical challenge between two opposing worldviews, but most writers can only produce “my chad ideology vs your virgin ideology.”
I wrote a long, mildly autistic post about the fact that, if you think about it, the pure bloods kind of have a point to be distrustful of people who endanger the secrecy of their society and of people who come into their world as complete strangers, with no idea of how their world works.
@Turin_Turamarth @hayes_gens Thank you. :)
I liked the idea a lot to show her character from the perspective of someone who was close to her so I'm glad you like it!
This is a little story I came up with, told from the perspective of Pansy, inspired by @hayes_gens art (1/4):
Pansy Parkinson had initially not been very excited about being a Slytherin. She was a pure-blood, and her father had been a Slytherin too, but her mother, gentle as she was, had been a Hufflepuff. Silently, Pansy had hoped that the Sorting Hat would recognise which parent she had taken after more.
Arriving at Hogwarts and seeing the long, imposingly large tables in the Great Hall, one for each of the houses, she couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the looks the students in black and green threw at the newcomers. Slytherin, a house known for ambition and excellence, the heritage of pure blood and traditions that seemed to be as old as magic itself, had not seemed like a good fit for her at all.
But when that old, crumpled piece of leathery headwear was placed on her head, she had barely a moment to form a thought before it yelled:
“Slytherin!”
Pansy remembered how her heart had sunk as a cold round of applause, punctuated by only a few isolated cheers, washed over her from the students she was now to call her peers.
All the other houses had cheered and hollered, whistled and whooped when one of the new students was selected to become one of them. But the Slytherins simply applauded. Nobody shook her hand as she took a seat; nobody patted her on the back. The most she got was a curt and polite “Welcome.”
She took solace in the fact that, at the very least, they treated all the other students selected to join their house the same.
All except one.
When the Sorting Hat was placed on the head of Dracaena Malfoy, the table erupted in cheers and thundering applause. Even then, Pansy had known why. Everybody knew the name “Malfoy”.
One of the oldest noble houses in the British Isles, as well as one of the richest. Highly respected, depending on who was asked.
Pansy watched the pretty blonde girl, who seemed to have captured the adoration of all Slytherins on her very first day, walk down the hall and take her place just a few students away from her.
What stuck with her most was the expression on the girl’s face: a smile as if she had expected nothing less than the treatment she was given.
For the first month or so, Dracaena and Pansy rarely crossed paths. This was not particularly surprising to Pansy at the time. What could a girl like Dracaena possibly want with someone like her?
In general, Pansy had struggled to make friends. She had been short for her age and not particularly pretty. Her clothes were ill-fitting, her teeth a little crooked and worst of all, she was incredibly shy.
In a house known not just for the pursuit of excellence, but also for the arrogance that often came with it, it did not take long until the bullying started.
Other students would tease her, hide her books, or play nasty pranks on her.
One day, Goyle and some of the other students had cornered her, and the big, lanky boy had announced to everyone that he was going to try the levitation spell he had recently learned on Pansy, to see how high into the air he could throw her.
Pansy, terrified of heights, had started to cry as she lifted off the ground.
Everyone around her was laughing at her misery.
Then Dracaena appeared. Even though she was a girl no older than Pansy, she gave Goyle a dressing-down so thorough that he seemed to shrink with every word she threw at him.
“Unbecoming of a pure-blood,” she had called his behaviour, a shame to his entire family. She had even started loudly wondering how many Muggles his family line must have secretly hidden for him to treat a fellow pure-blood, a girl no less, in such a way.
Dracaena made every one of them apologise to Pansy and swear never to do such a thing again. “We are Slytherins,” she had said. “We stick together.”
The next day, Goyle had even given Pansy a Chocolate Frog as he mumbled an apology, probably less because he genuinely cared than because he hoped she would mention it to Dracaena.
She seemed to be everything that Pansy was not. She was aloof, pretty, confident to the point of arrogance and could show a fierceness that even seemed to intimidate some of her teachers.
She had a tongue so sharp that Pansy had seen her wipe smug grins off the faces of students three years her senior. When she spoke, she expected others to listen with a certainty that only aristocracy could bestow.
And she made sure that nobody ever forgot who her family was and that she was exactly that.
Dracaena was also fiercely competitive, studying and practising any activity she engaged in as if only the best would ever suffice. She rarely bragged about anything that she was not actually good at and she was by no means humble.
Pansy had admired Dracaena long before she ever spoke a word to her. And she had not been the only one.
Since the day the heir to the Malfoy name had entered the school grounds, she had always been surrounded by people trying to gain her favour. Performative acts of kindness seemed to fall into Dracaena’s lap, and her classmates always seemed willing to do what she told them to.
But Pansy did not have anything to give Dracaena, apart from her gratitude for saving her and her silent admiration.
Crabbe and Goyle were the primary members of her little circle of followers, flanking Dracaena like a pair of henchmen wherever she went. Looking back, Pansy felt sure that their families had told them to stay in her good graces as soon as they arrived.
All the more surprising, then, when Dracaena started taking Pansy under her wing. At first, it had been little things, like saving a spot for her at the table in the Great Hall, waiting for her after class, or simply shooting an icy glare at anyone who tried to bully her.
Once or twice, she even slid Pansy the notes she had taken in class and helped her learn and practise.
Pansy had been quite suspicious at first. Why would someone like her, who was everything Pansy felt she could never be, want to be her friend?
She suspected a ploy, some sort of planned act of cruelty, and at first Dracaena seemed to perform these little acts of kindness without really acknowledging Pansy very much. But still, no malicious acts of any kind followed.
Maybe, Pansy had thought, the Malfoy girl was just trying to make herself look good by bestowing her prized favour on the ugly duckling of Slytherin.
One day, Pansy decided to try to show her gratitude by giving Dracaena a small bag filled with the cookies her mother had sent her.
She had not expected much. Perhaps a short, grateful acknowledgement. A quick smile.
Instead, Dracaena beamed with happiness, giving Pansy, who was almost a head shorter than her, a hug so strong it lifted her off her feet.
From then on, Dracaena seemed to open up to her more and more. She would talk about her family, her home, the large gardens they had, the trips they took to France in summer to visit relatives.
And when nobody was looking, she would talk about how she was afraid of monsters and ghouls.
How her father had once caught her sneaking out a slice of her birthday cake to give to one of the house-elves.
How she was terrified of drowning, ever since she was a child.
Pansy wished she had even half as many interesting things to say, but still, every time she talked, Dracaena listened, smiling, giggling at funny mishaps and even consoling her about things that made her sad.
By the end of the year, Pansy and Dracaena had become best friends.
And as the year had progressed, Harry Potter had become quite a frequent subject. Oh, how much Dracaena hated him.
The boy who had spurned her, rejected her offer of friendship, when so many of her classmates seemed to be bending over backwards to have that chance. Silently, so as not to offend her friend, Pansy had wondered if Dracaena would have been friends with Potter the way she was with her, or if she’d have preferred him to keep Crabbe and Goyle company.
Maybe Dracaena would have liked a red Gryffindor uniform, flanked by the green of Slytherin, as a sort of aesthetically pleasing trio.
Dracaena is a fellow yearner
"Poor Saint Potter, alone again on the holidays? Where's Ron and Hermione, on a date in Hogsmeade? Hmmmmm?"
"What about you? Your father get tired of you yet?"
"As a matter of fact, I am actually still being punished for what you dragged me into last year! You still owe me!"
Character note: In Quidditch games, Malfoy puts her hair into twintails as a good luck charm because it makes her resemble a Golden Snitch.
This is, in fact, subtle foreshadowing to how she will be caught by Harry and win his heart. And also to her snitching on the DA.
The reason why this trope works so well is that an enemy will often know you a lot better than those close to you. They will see your worst sides, as they are actively looking for any reason that justifies their animosity.
Them falling in love with you means they were obsessively searching for your worst aspects and that which is good in you still won them over. There are no negative surprises to that love. They literally catalogued everything that there is to dislike about you.
And they still fell in love.
Either that or you are in fact comically horrible and they are kind of into that.
My spicy take is at least 50% of the people who enjoy this Malfoid trend (myself included) are into the enemies to lovers trope but are too afraid to admit it.
@ammonoid9 @hayes_gens Thank you so much! I've seen a lot of your stuff and really liked it too so I'm glad you like it.
This was also me, by the way:
Scribbling out pages of malfoy: haha fuck yes i am the greatest
Cleaning up those pages to be presentable: what the fuck im trash i want to cry
🎉🎉🎉Thank you so much everyone for the incredible support and motivation to post my first ever completed writing project. It was a lot of fun!
I think I had 22 followers before Malfoid-Mania and now I'm over 600. So this was a follower milestone present as well I guess. Thanks again! I'm taking a quick break from writing anything for the moment, but I will continue loving all the Malfoid content on the TL for the foreseeable future 🪄🪄🪄
Here is a link to a Wattpad version of the fanfic that's broken up into more manageable parts. (IT ALSO HAS EXTRAS) Checkout the Preface and Outline sections, Enjoy!
Art is by: @Kekel0212
https://t.co/9D5W8qCU3H
I think this would make for a fabulous theme to be explored.
"What good is a world in which we rule, if we become the monsters we tried to keep at bay?"
Even in the movies, Lucius was not exactly excited about Voldemorts return. He was visibly disheveled, his family under threat and he knew he would be killed if he didn't do what he was told.
This will be a long post, but I genuinenly think this story is among my favorites to come out of this entire trend so far.
Everyone who enjoys the entire concept should read it, its really marvelous and very well written.
What I adore so much about its characterization of Lucius Malfoy is this line:
"I believe also that the cause was served by vulgar men and disgraced by vulgar means, and that I did not keep myself as clear of either as I ought."
It betrays a sense of nobility inherent to the ideal of aristocracy within Lucius.
Nevermind the fact that this is a great introduction, showing not only Dracinas capacity for good, her sense of justice and her fathers love for her, but also her being more than a spoiled princess. She is raised to be the heir to an ancient house, prepared for all the duties that come with that title and she is trained and educated to meet the expectations inherent to it.
It also shows another, more noble side to the "old families" within the world of Harry Potter.
J.K. Rowlings original had Death Eaters and those obsessed with the purity of their blood as basically Nazis, without them ever really arguing their case.
They seek to dominate, see themselves as stronger and superior and want to grab power because they can.
This is perfectly fine by itself, as sometimes evil can really just be evil, seeking to dominate and control, without needing any asterisk tacked on to try and humanize or rationalize it.
And obviously, the core ideology of both the death eaters and the old families is that intermingling with muggles is bad for their magical abilities. Those who do not intermarry, retain that which makes them strong.
Setting aside whether there might be reasons for people within this world to believe such a thing, this story, as short as it is, also explores a different theme:
"I believed then, and I believe still, that the cause of the old families was a just cause: that our world is better governed by those who have governed it for centuries than by the newcomers who pour into it every September knowing nothing of its history and caring less."
This simple line, in my opinion, opens the door for an entirely new perspective.
Imagine, for a second, that you are a wizard or witch in the world of Harry Potter. The entire wizarding world has to live in hiding, and so do you, for your entire life.
In the lore, this is governed by the "International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy," established in response to centuries of persecution and conflict between the magical and non-magical worlds.
Your entire society lives under the constant threat of exposure, and potentially catastrophic consequences, should the Muggles ever discover its existence.
Think about this for a moment.
Your continued security depends on every single member of your society adhering to an incredibly restrictive way of life, affecting how they travel, live, work, and generally conduct themselves.
A single local moron with a rebellious streak could start a chain reaction that might spell disaster for your entire world.
And now imagine, additionally, that you see more and more of your peers forming close relationships with Muggles, as friends, family members, or lovers.
Any connection to the non-wizarding world becomes another potential point of exposure, another risk that must be managed.
Would it not be prudent to try to limit this kind of intermingling as much as possible?
And should those with the deepest roots in this world, with centuries of experience passed down from generation to generation, not be the ones to guide those who arrive in it at the age of eleven as strangers, knowing nothing of its history or about the fragility of it all?
If you think about like this, Lucius's motivations, his ideals and his adherence to tradition became far more tangible.
He views himself, and his family, as stewards, guardians of knowledge and traditions otherwise lost, and, perhaps most importantly, as natural leaders of the society they have inherited.
It is an understanding of nobility that goes beyond the mere privileges of birth. In his eyes, the old families have not simply inherited wealth, status, and influence. They have inherited a responsibility to preserve the institutions and customs that have sustained their world for centuries, and to pass them on, intact, to those who come after them.
Their authority, in this understanding, is not merely a right but an obligation, born from the conviction that their accumulated experience gives them a perspective others lack.
Where a newcomer might see an outdated custom, they see the hard-won wisdom of generations, realizations that cost their world dearly to make. Where others might pursue immediate change, they see consequences that could unfold over decades or even centuries.
And where others might see arrogance and an unjust claim to superiority, they see a duty to protect a society that, in their minds, might otherwise lose its way.
Lucius may well believe in the superiority of his blood. But more interestingly, he believes that his family and their peers possess an understanding of the larger picture that others, lacking their history and upbringing, might struggle to comprehend.
That does not necessarily make him right, nor does it justify the prejudices or cruelty that might follow from such convictions.
But it makes him a far more interesting character than someone who merely seeks power for its own sake.
I really like this theme, because it opens so many doors for not just Lucius, but also Dracina and her future relationships. She is haughty, maybe, with a strong sense of pride and belief in her own superiority. But at the same time she is just, refined and filled with a sense of obligation, a duty to perform as befits her status.
Oh hell fine! My hat's going in the ring.
It starts long before school. It starts with Lucius becoming a girldad...
From the Private Diary of Lucius Malfoy
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire — the 5th of June, 1988
Dracina is eight years old today; and since I cannot sleep, and since it has been my habit for some years to set down in this book whatever I should be unwilling to say aloud and equally unwilling to forget, I shall attempt some account of her. A man who writes of his child at midnight runs a considerable risk of writing nonsense; but I judge that risk the smaller of two, the other being that I should write nothing, and find in ten years’ time that I could no longer recall what she was at eight.
I could not be prouder of her. I have written that sentence three times this evening, and twice struck it out in favour of some more measured form of words (such as a father might employ who did not wish to be thought foolish even by himself); but each of the measured forms, read back, was untrue, and the plain sentence is all that is left standing.
At dinner today, when Dobby brought in the cake, he set it down a little crooked, so that one of the sugared peacocks which Narcissa had ordered for the top slid down the side and came to rest upon its back in the icing, with its feet in the air. He began at once upon that performance with which every member of this household is acquainted, and had got so far as to seize a candlestick for the purpose, when Dracina said to him, before her mother or I could speak, “Stop that. It’s a peacock, Dobby. Nobody has died. Thank you for the cake.” Then she turned to me, with an air of the most perfect composure, and asked whether that had been correct. I told her that it had; and I believe I told her the truth, though I arrived at the belief slowly, for I could not recollect having said anything of the kind to an elf in the whole course of my life. Her governess is a Rosier, and thinks elves a species of furniture; her mother is kind to them in a general way, and would no more thank one for a cake than she would thank the table for holding it up.
She must have had it from somewhere, and I am driven to suppose she had it from me: from some remark of mine, made upon an occasion I have entirely forgotten, about the courtesy a great House owes to those who serve it, which I intended as an ornament and she received as a rule. It is a disconcerting thing, to find that one’s maxims have been believed. It is more disconcerting to find that one’s manner has been believed along with them. A fortnight since, the Parkinsons dined here, and Dracina said something to their girl about her nose so cold, so exactly made, and so entirely unanswerable, that the child was taken home in tears. I reproved her, and she bore it well. I did not tell her that I heard my own voice in every syllable; still less that I understood perfectly the pleasure she had taken in the composition. She has had both from me, the courtesy and the cruelty, and I cannot flatter myself that I chose which she should take.
Nor, I think, did I choose for myself what I took from my own father. He was a man of strong opinions and few reasons; or, to speak more fairly of him, he possessed his reasons so completely that it never occurred to him they might require to be stated. From him I learned which tone is proper to a Minister and which to a shopkeeper, how an enemy is to be received at one’s own table, and how a Weasley is to be looked at across a room; and I learned these things as a boy learns the shape of his own hands, so early and so thoroughly that I could not afterwards have told you I had learned them at all. By the time I came of age I wore my station as I wore my name, and with as little reflection.
It is commonly said that a daughter softens her father. I grant that I am fonder, which requires no explanation, and gentler, which is less to my credit than it sounds, since a child of five cannot be governed by the methods which suffice for the Wizengamot. But the change of real consequence is that I have grown more serious about my station, and of this the proverb says nothing at all. A child does not permit a man to wear his station without reflection. She asks why of every form he has never examined, and she asks it with the dreadful patience of a person who has nowhere else to be.
At Easter she rode out with me to the western edge of the estate, and upon our return she asked, with no appearance of malice and a very great appearance of interest, why the Malfoys, who were the oldest family in Wiltshire, should have tenants whose roofs let in the rain. I answered that the matter was the steward’s concern. She considered this for the length of the avenue, and then asked whose steward he was. I rode out again the next morning, alone, and found that she was right, and more right than she knew; for the western cottages had been neglected through three winters, and the repairs charged to the estate regardless. When I told her afterwards the old rule of our House, which my father gave to me and his father to him, that a Malfoy answers for whatever is done in his name, she said, “Then you have to answer for the roof.” I have answered for it. It cost me forty Galleons and a steward, and I count the price a low one. I found, in short, that I could not answer her as my father had answered me; and a father who will not lie to his daughter must either confess that he does not know, or go and find out.
I went down into the old muniment room one afternoon in the winter of 1985, intending to spend an hour there, and I spent the better part of the season. There were wills and letters, and the accounts of old patronage: apprentices paid for, widows pensioned, wands bought for children whose fathers could not afford them. Above all there were the household books of my great-great-grandmother Héloïse, who kept this estate through two bad harvests and a goblin rising. One of them lies open before me now, in a hand so small that I read it with a magnifying charm. At the head of every year’s accounts she has written the same line, non nobis solum nati sumus. She wrote that a great house is a granary, filled in the good years in order that it may be emptied in the bad; and in another place, more shortly, and I think more wisely, that before one gives oneself away one had better have something worth the giving. I copied these out for Dracina, and she has them pinned above her bed.
It was in this book that I read her account of the goblin rising, in which she stood at the gates of this house in her nightgown with her wand in her hand and kept them shut three days together, and fed every tenant on the estate out of her own stores while she did it. When I had read it I tried to call to mind a single man of the Dark Lord’s company who would have done the same, and I could not. I believed then, and I believe still, that the cause of the old families was a just cause: that our world is better governed by those who have governed it for centuries than by the newcomers who pour into it every September knowing nothing of its history and caring less; and that our blood, which has carried our gifts down a thousand years, is thinned by every marriage made outside it. I believe also that the cause was served by vulgar men and disgraced by vulgar means, and that I did not keep myself as clear of either as I ought. I have made such arrangements with the Ministry as have kept my family safe. I seldom propose to examine those arrangements, which is itself, I suppose, a fact worth recording. What I meant by the thought about Héloïse I have never been able quite to make out.
Narcissa will not read this, and would be displeased by most of it. I may say with entire truth that I love her more now than on the day we married; and I set this down first because what follows might otherwise sound ungracious — namely that we have disagreed over Dracina more often, and more warmly, than over anything else in our lives together. She has lost both her sisters, each in her own manner; and I believe the loss has made her hold the more tightly to what remains.
She thinks I make the child too grave. She would have her dance, and sit for her portrait, and be admired, and she says, with justice, that a girl taught nothing but duty will grow up without those graces which make duty tolerable to others. I say that a girl taught nothing but grace will grow up the property of whoever flatters her first. We have compromised, as people do who love one another and the same child: Dracina has a dancing master on Tuesdays, and on Thursdays she sits with me for an hour over the estate books. She likes the Thursdays better. Narcissa says that this is my fault, and it is, and I am proud of it.
Dracina will be handsome, rich, and of rank; three things which together have ruined more women than poverty ever did, since each of them invites flattery, and the three together invite it from every quarter at once. I would have her difficult to deceive and difficult to frighten; perfectly civil to an enemy while yielding him nothing; able to command herself before she is permitted to command anyone else. When she meets with a fact which will not fit, I would have her set it upon the mantelpiece and look at it until she understands why it is there, since the facts which will not fit are the only ones that can teach her anything she does not already know. I mean, in a word, to give her so much substance that no one will ever be able to make her merely ornamental.
She will be equal to it. She will receive this House from me when I am done with it, and hand it on larger than she received it; and there will not be a family in Britain that does not know her name, nor one that does not wish it had made a better match for its sons.
She is asleep now, with Héloïse’s maxims above her head and the sugared peacock, rescued from the icing, upon the table beside her bed. Narcissa tells me that I am a fool about her. Narcissa is entirely correct, and I am going to bed.
— L. M.
@LordFarchad Thank you, I really appreciate it and I'm really glad you like it!
@LordFarchad My first Salieri reaction
@Echovibecv Thank you, I really appreciate it and I'm glad you like it. :)
I'll do my best!
Thank you, that means a lot.
(I spent an hour trying to split it and wondered how to best add breaks between paragraphs. :) )
I had the idea for Pansy after reading @Critical_Scribe's Yule Ball scene, where he described Pansy as exchanging a smile with Dracaena as she entered the hall with Harry.
I figured it would be interesting if she was her confidant, who knew the kind of person she could really be.
@Sam_sagaces Thank you, I appreciate it. :)
@DivinaCalamis What is special American occultism as opposed to regular occultism?
Genuinely curious.
I agree 100%. Not to mention that fan fiction is basically writing with training wheels. It allows a space for people to incorporate ideas and themes and tell a story they think would be good, and have an audience who is receptive to those ideas.
A lot of the memes during the Malfoid trend are same sample of people ‘Yes-And’ing things that would be funny or that would work, and then others taking it and making a meaningful short story based on it. (Ron defending Harry/Dracaena’s first kiss in a last stand type scenario & McGonnagal being special forces for example)
This is how you develop a base of people who like how you think & like how you write before you try to publish a story of your own.
One of the gents who published some of the best fics has a story on Royal Road called The Hedge Knight. He shared an excerpt from one of the later chapters that was very heartfelt and character focused.
Guess who’s reading that story now? Me. I’ve seen how he writes, how he thinks, and I’m looking forward to see how we get to that chapter.
Your Yule ball story had this neat little nudge at the end where she reveals she's been wanting him to look at her the same way he looks at others for a while so I really like what you did here.
It's such an interesting theme because outwardly, to most people (except maybe close friends) she's cold, only for Harry to, for one second, see the person she is underneath that.
I love that you recognized the Buckbeak situation as a really sweet opportunity for a turning point from a genuine rivalry to her thinking that maybe he isn't so bad after all.
*The following is a recounting of the Buckbeak events from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, focused on events from Chapter 6: Talons and Tea Leaves and Chapter 15: The Quidditch Final, from Draceana(Malfoid)'s perspective*
Draceana sat up in her bed.
Madam Pomfrey’s infirmary was empty, save her, which gave her a bed at the window that overlooked a portion of the fields outside Hogwarts. Yet, the sight outside could have have fireworks and she wouldn’t have paid it any attention
“I’m dying! I’m dying, look at me! It’s killed me!”
The memory of her words brought heat to her face. Madam Pomfrey had the cuts along her arm mended in seconds once she’d been carried in by Hagrid, but the girl had been shaken. Pomfrey had been kind enough to prescribe rest, but the silence that surrounded her made Draceana get lost in her thoughts. Deep down, she knew that the hippogriff was no threat. After all, Harry had been able to pet, even fly, him without issue, so why was she…
“You great ugly brute.”
Those were the words that earned her the talons. She had heard Hagrid say that insults provoked the beasts, but so swept up was she in trying to downplay Harry’s achievement in riding Buckbeak, so concerned was she about the boy yet again being showered in praise, that her tongue had gotten ahead of her. Then, the panic she showed everyone from reaping what she sowed… shameful, utterly shameful.
The door to the infirmary opened, its creaking drawing Draceana’s eyes to the figures of Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy stepping in. The two boys were stone faced, as they normally were, but Pansy was in tears. Draceana wondered if they were genuine, but there was sorrow to the girl’s voice as she approached.
“Oh Draceana… it must have been terrible!” She took a seat next to the bed.
Crabbe and Goyle stood a ways back, doing their best imitation of statues.
Draceana rubbed her arm. The spot of her mended cuts still itched, but she refrained from scratching. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? That beast was right on top of you!” Pansy crossed her arms. “Honestly! Who allowed that brute to even teach a class?! This place has been going to the dogs under that senile headmaster of ours.”
There would be a time where Draceana may have gotten swept up in her friend’s complaints and joined her, but the sting to her pride kept her silent.
Pansy tilted her head. “Draceana?”
She looked out the window again, eyes vacant. “My father will hear about this.”
Pansy nodded vigorously. “Yes he will, and he’ll make sure that the beast gets what for. Harming a pureblood, and a Malfoy nonetheless! Justice will be served.”
Crabbe giggled. “Maybe we oughta really play it up, make sure it gets the maximum sentence.”
Goyle twirled his hand around his arm. “Put on a sling, let everyone know how it harmed you.”
Pansy clapped her hands. “Oooh now that is an idea, maybe we’ll get rid of the oaf too!”
Draceana clenched her jaw. “I will not be doing that.”
They regarded her in silence for a few moments before Pansy tried to speak. “But-”
“I will not!” Draceana gripped the sheets. “Father already has connections at the Ministry. There is no point in playing an act.” She gathered herself with a breath. “I will write to him and explain what happened, exactly, and ensure that the proper punishment is given. Do all of you understand?”
She looked over the three, but they all were silent.
“Well?”
They all nodded.
“Good. Crabbe, fetch me a paper and quill, I need to write a letter.”
***
Dear Father,
I hope all is well at home.
You have no doubt received news of my recent injury dealt by the hippogriff Buckbeak.
I am writing to let you know that I am fully recovered due to the work of Madam Pomfrey and that I accept full responsibility for provoking the beast into attacking.
This would not have happened were it not for my carelessness.
It is my hope that this is taken into consideration when you speak to those at the Ministry, and that the proper judgement is received.
My best wishes to you and mother.
Sincerely,
Draceana
***
My dearest Draceana,
Your mother and I are glad that you are well.
It is good to know that some of the faculty at Hogwarts remain competent in doing their jobs.
Unfortunately, that does not appear to be the norm at the institution, and lessons must be learned even by those who teach.
You have accepted blame with honor, and that is good, but you would not have been placed in such a situation had that half-giant not been allowed to teach in the first place.
To harm a Malfoy is to harm the family, and he, his pet, and the headmaster will soon learn what it means to cross us.
Carry on with your studies, I will take care of everything.
With utmost regards,
Your father
***
The following months passed by in a slow, creeping crawl.
Draceana had tried to ignore any mention of the trial, but Harry and his friends’ persistent jabbering at all times about it found the ears of people who thought it appropriate to inform her as some sort of favor. She wanted nothing more than to throttle them, but restrained herself. It was all for the family, to ensure that there was no stain upon the name, yet every time she had been told that things were not going well for Hagrid and Buckbeak it only felt like another drop of ink on her soul.
The words in her father’s letter were far from ambiguous, and she knew the inevitable fate of the beast. Each time she was reminded of its incoming doom, she slipped further into the recesses of her mind. It was her mistake that caused this, and yet everyone around her treated it like some victory. Only Pansy seemed to understand that the subject irritated her, and had never brought up the subject when they were alone. A small comfort, but something she was grateful for nonetheless.
The rest that still wounded her forced her into distraction, antagonizing that she knew that she shouldn’t be doing, snide comments and demeaning actions focused upon the ones who constantly reminded her of her shame. Anything to keep her mind off of how her small comment had spiraled into something so out of control and exaggerated. She just wanted this stretch of her life to finally have its ending.
She didn’t expect to run into it walking out of class.
She already had a hard time looking Hagrid in the eyes after the incident, and was quick to walk ahead of the three who hung around the massive man during Care of Magical Creatures. Crabbe and Goyle were with her, snickering at the sniffles that didn’t match the man’s frame.
“S’all my fault.” Hagrid blew into a handkerchief. “Got all tongue-tied. They was all sittin’ there in black robes an’ I kep’ droppin’ me notes and forgettin’ all them dates yeh looked up fer me, Hermione. An’ then Lucius Malfoy stood up an’ said his bit, and the Committee jus’ did exac’ly what he told ’em. . . .”
Draceana ground her teeth at the mention of her father.
“There’s still the appeal!” Ron tried and barely managed to pat Hagrid’s back. “Don’t give up yet, we’re working on it!”
They continued to walk back up to the castle. Crabbe and Goyle kept their enjoyment of Hagrid’s situation known, but Draceana chose to listen past their snide comments.
“S’no good, Ron.” Hagrid slowed as they reached the castle steps. “That Committee’s in Lucius Malfoy’s pocket. I’m jus’ gonna make sure the rest o’ Beaky’s time is the happiest he’s ever had. I owe him that. . . .”
Draceana turned to say something, but the large man was already hurrying back towards his cabin, face buried in his handkerchief.
Goyle pointed and laughed. “Look at him blubber!”
Crabbe slapped his knee. “Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic? And he’s supposed to be our teacher!”
Harry and Ron turned, fury in their eyes, but neither were as driven as Hermione. The Granger girl was nearly a blur as she rushed towards them, but her rage was not at the boys at the boys. The resounding smack across Draceana’s face, so quick that she didn’t even have time to react, was all that needed to be said about the muggle’s anger.
“This is your fault!” Hermione was in Draceana’s face, redder than she’d ever been.
Crabbe and Goyle, flabbergasted as much as the rest of them, merely stood by.
“All this and you and your cronies dare call Hagrid pathetic, you foul - you evil -” She raised her hand again.
“Hermione!” Ron grabbed her hand as she swung it back.
“Get off, Ron!” She pulled out her wand and pointed it at Draceana, who was still trying to process the sting on her cheek.
Crabbe and Goyle, useless as always, looked towards Draceana for instructions.
The girl rubbed her cheek and stared at the wand that trembled at her. “...I didn’t mean for this to happen.” She wasn’t sure what sort of face she was making, but what she did notice was that Harry was very focused on it for some reason.
Hermione thrust her wand forward. “Liar!”
Draceana didn’t move. “I’m not, but I guess you’ll believe whatever you want, won’t you?” She looked at the three that were always together. “That’s all you’ll see when you look at me.” She wasn’t aware she’d been tearing up until a tear fell down her cheek.
Harry stepped forward, and Draceana braced herself for whatever lashing she was about to receive. She wasn’t going to back down from anything, not even him. Except, he put his arm on Hermione’s instead. “It’s not worth it.”
Somehow, that made the pain on her cheek dig deeper.
Draceana turned back to the castle. “C’mon.” She stormed away, not caring if Crabbe and Goyle followed.
“Hermione!” The tone in Weasley’s voice was impressed.
The Granger girl’s shrill voice echoed after her. “Harry, you’d better beat her in the Quidditch final! You just better had, because I can’t stand it if Slytherin wins!”
Draceana let those words bounce off of her as she disappeared through the door.
***
Not so long after, news of Buckbeak’s escape spread across the campus like wildfire. Many had expected Draceana to be upset at the news, but she was dismissive of it, choosing to focus on exams instead. Like usual, she passed them without issue, though this time with higher marks. The excuse of study kept her away from those who would constantly try and inform her of some latest rumor of how Hagrid had managed to smuggle the hippogriff to safety. They still tried, and she put on a show of being irritated for the sake of maintaining her family’s image, but in reality that news had only been a relief.
Her mistake had caused so much turmoil already, and even if the end result was a beast on the run, at the very least she had not resulted in its death. She couldn’t tell anyone that, however, for rumors of the Malfoy family getting soft was another situation that could quickly get out of hand if it reached her father’s ears. So, she passed the rest of the school year in comparative silence, even as Gryffindor won yet another House Cup in a row. That had just seemed inevitable to her, for some reason.
She had even told Crabbe and Goyle that she wished to have a private car on the Hogwarts Express when it arrived to take her home, if only so she could have a moment to herself before going to get on the train.
“Malfoy!”
She froze midstep in front of the doorway at the sound of Harry’s voice. The tone of it wasn’t its usual confrontational one, which had piqued her curiosity enough to turn around.
“What is it, Potter?”
There was an uncertain air to the boy’s green eyes, but she was almost stunned to find that it lacked the usual disdain that he held for her. “I believe you.”
“...what?”
“About Buckbeak,” he scratched the back of his head, “I believe that you didn’t intend for him to get the sentence he did.”
She was silent for what felt like hours. “...I-”
“I just wanted to let you know.” Harry hurried past her. “Now come on, you don’t want to get left behind.”
The boy disappeared into the train before she could properly form a response, and she was half tempted to go after him to further explain. The prospect of running into Weasley and the Granger girl stopped her, however, and she walked to her car, stunned. What she was grateful for was the private car, for it allowed her thoughts to rush through her unbidden. Crabbe and Goyle had never brought up the words she spoke when Hermione slapped her, and for so long did she think that no one believed her. Yet, someone had, and it was the person she had never expected to. So unexpected was this that all the tension that had been coiled in her chest left her at a speed that nearly made her gasp. She couldn’t tell what was going on with her face aside from the fact that it was hot. She turned to the window, stunned at what she saw.
Relief, and flushed cheeks.
It's so cool that everyone just acknowledges that the ball would be their important little moment, just that everyone interprets it a little differently.
(1/2) Chapter 2: Up to Snuff
"Not Good Enough, Potter!" Malfoy snapped at him, kicking his shoe into place. He had stepped a half pace instead of a quarter.
It had been five days since the Yule Ball’s announcement, and Harry had been through two official lessons with Professor McGonagall (both with Malfoy) and was painfully in the process of attending his first impromptu practice with Dracona Malfoy. Harry had been forced in a way to reluctantly accept what he could only perceive as a threat. Despite finding Malfoy to be at best a nuisance, and at worst, a danger to his life, Harry had to admit she was an exceptionally talented dancer. Despite this, Harry didn’t find her to be the friendliest of teachers.
Malfoy had broken away from him and pointed her wand at the music box on the wall, stopping the music. She had her arms crossed and was staring daggers at him.
“You are not feeling the music, Potter. You are still thinking too much. Stop thinking about where to step with that tiny brain of yours and just move your legs properly. Try again.” The waltz resumed. Malfoy had a habit of pacing when she was irritated, and now she hounded him about his technique by endlessly circling him. Harry felt like he was playing Quidditch with how Malfoy relentlessly chased and pestered him. Harry was used to performing in front of hostile crowds, but he found himself counting the minutes until his lesson with her was over. Whatever pleasantries she had shown him earlier in the week vanished the moment she began instructing.
Harry finished his step progressions and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Can we… can we please take a break? I don’t want to use my entire free weekend being abused by you.” Malfoy flicked her wand from under her arm and the music was silenced. “Better? If you could dance as well as you complain, I wouldn’t have to get onto you so often, Potter.” Harry flopped to the floor. He had changed out of his Hogwarts robes into something more suited for dancing, but the abandoned room they were practicing in was surprisingly warm. Harry couldn’t complain too much due to the snow outside. Harry scanned the peculiar chamber.
“Malfoy, I never knew that there was a dance hall on the seventh floor. I must have walked past it a million times.” Malfoy had sunk into her chair and followed his eyes around the ceiling. “I wouldn’t put it past you to miss the obvious.” She played with her hair without looking at him. The Gryffindor dormitory was also on the seventh-floor, so Harry was perplexed as to how he had missed such a large space. It had high vaulted ceilings, mirrored walls on all four sides, and was almost exactly what one might imagine if they thought of a dance studio. Harry could feel it in his legs that today's session was over for him. Malfoy sat cross-legged on the other side of the dance floor.
“How did you know this place was up here then?” Harry mused breathlessly. Malfoy cast her eyes back upon Harry and took a deep breath, “You of all people surely aren’t judging me for sneaking around, are you?” she beamed with a coy smile. The hypocrisy was not lost on Harry; An accusation coming from someone who notoriously bent the rules every year must've sounded rich. She continued acting distant and lounged in her chair like she owned the place.
“For your information Potter, I’ve been coming here to dance since first year. One doesn’t magically become as talented as I am without practice. I missed the dancing lessons at Malfoy Manor from when I was a girl. Anytime I got homesick, wanted to run away, if I felt like dancing, I would find this room here…” Harry chuckled and a disarmed look came over Malfoy’s blushing face.
“When you teased me about practicing for the ballet, I hadn’t the faintest clue you were talking about yourself!” Harry snickered. Malfoy narrowed her eyes as if searching for a memory before her face lit up. “I’m NOT a Ballerina, Potter. I only- you can remember my Quidditch banter from years ago?” Harry’s wit took over, “I tried my best to ignore you actually, but you have a habit of being really loud and obnoxious. Some of them were real charmers though.”
The two of them laughed heartily, but trailed off. Idle chitchat with Malfoy was still something new for Harry and the conversations usually ended clumsily. He couldn’t help but feel he was being a little childish, but Harry was afraid to excuse himself. It wasn’t beyond possibility that she might attack him. Harry wagered his chances and began to speak, “Malfoy, I think this might be enough for today. I still have studying to do, and well it’s getting late-” Malfoy jumped from her seat and stretched her arms widely. She had rolled her sleeves up and her hair was in a ponytail. She usually only wore it that way for Quidditch. “Correct you are, Potter. I have my own life as well.” She picked up his bag and walked it over to him on the floor. “Keep working on your half turns. We'll start pirouettes and spins next time.” Harry groaned as he rose from the floor. “Honestly Potter… Can’t expect me to keep doing charity work all day long. You really should pay me back.”
Harry was relieved to be finished, but he figured they had ended on a good note. He could’ve continued chatting, but he was supposed to meet with Hermione to study. He made his way to a partition in the corner that they used to change in. Harry couldn't dress for dancing in the dormitories without being seen, and he would be mortified to change in front of her. As he pulled on his jumper he heard her yell from outside after him. “What time next week?” He heard her approaching now and was worried she might barge in on him.
“Just a second!” He heard a moan from outside “Do you really think I want to see you naked, Potter? Answer the question.” He opened the curtain after changing to see her aggravated look had returned. “Which one?” She smacked him square in the chest pushing him back into the booth. “Oww! What now Malfoy? You already told me when and where.” She puffed up and put a hand on her hip. “I’d just like to hear you say it. It’s a common courtesy, Potter. Maybe Mudbloods and Muggles wouldn't know any better, but I'd expect you to show some mutual respect.” Harry winced and felt impatient, but he also sensed an ulterior motivation. He remembered McGonagall’s warning.
“The time we agreed upon. That still works for me. I know your time is more valuable than mine.”
She was annoyed by his answer. “Fine by me. And I won’t expect a thank you for taking such risks to help you, Potter.” Harry found this the funniest part of their arrangement. But he wouldn’t want to be seen alone around her either. “What was your excuse to come up here today? I said I had detention.” Malfoy just gave him a vapid stare, “Like it matters to you, Potter. Just don’t be seen leaving…” She moped back to her chair and grabbed her robe, “Leave. So I can start changing.”
Harry did as she commanded. Walking back onto the seventh-floor hallway, he nearly ran into Crabbe and Goyle. Harry nodded, “Hiya. Did we miss anything interesting?” The two just scowled as Harry walked away grinning. Sharing a secret with Malfoy was strange enough. Knowing that she had enlisted her two prats to keep watch was so odd that Harry couldn’t think about it too hard without hurting himself laughing. Somehow he knew her secret was safe with them, hidden away somewhere in their empty skulls.
------
The next morning, Harry, Ron and Hermione ate breakfast in the great hall, which seemed to buzz with a new fervor. The four tables usually assigned to the four houses had noticed a sharp increase in inter-house fraternization as boys and girls began pairing off for the Yule Ball, which was only a week or so away. Hermione was giving Harry a rare break from scolding over the second task; the Yule Ball had shifted the focus of most of his classmates towards more trivial matters. Ron opened the conversation as he kept looking over his shoulder at what was normally the Slytherin Table. As of late, it sat many of the guests from Durmstrang, including one Viktor Krum.
“Say, Harry, You know Viktor now right? Figure you could ask him for me? Maybe he could introduce me to someone for the Ball.” Harry only looked up from his Daily Prophet article and gave an unconvincing, “Sure thing Ron.” Hermione rolled her eyes and turned to Harry with intent. He believed a lecture was coming, so he pretended to really scrutinize Rita Skeeter’s latest hit piece. “Harry… We need to talk about the Ball. And who you’re thinking of taking with you.” Ron had perked up and turned around. “Oh don’t worry Hermione, I won’t ask you- I would never.” Harry said, jumping to conclusions. She hit him with her tablecloth. “You know that’s not what I meant you ass. This is serious! Please tell me you’ve given it some thought.” Ron appeared to relax some.
Harry acted stoically, but he couldn’t help the sinking feeling. He really did not want to bridge this conversation with Hermione, or anyone for that matter. With Sirius maybe, he could feel comfortable. But talking about girls was something Harry just wanted to bury. “Hadn’t really thought about it.” Harry lied. Hermione cut through his defenses, “Some of the girls are saying Cho has been pretty popular with proposals. She hasn’t said yes to any as far as I’m aware, but it probably won’t stay that way for long.” Harry felt like drowning. Cho was who he had planned on asking. Had he waited too long? He didn’t really know or like his options beyond her. He looked across the hall to Slytherin’s table and saw Malfoy in what looked like a heated conversation with Pansy Parkinson.
“No! No Harry- Slytherins are strictly off limits! Both of you, I forbid it!” Harry started to defend himself but was cut off by Ron who shook his head, “What are you, our mother? But… yeah, probably best to steer clear of any of those.” Harry felt defensive, “I hadn’t planned on that, no. I haven’t gone totally mental yet.” Malfoy had now grabbed Pansy’s robe and was nearly standing over the table. Ron scratched his head, “I know Fred and George were just messing with you, but what’s the deal with her wanting to practice with you in McGonagall’s?” Ron caught himself and put his hands out, “I mean no offense Harry, you’re a catch and all, but… It has to be a trap right? Like she’s trying to draw you over to the dark side? Make a fool of you in front of everyone.” Hermione finally lost her composure, dropping her book on the table, “She hasn’t asked you has she!? Say no Harry! Don’t even entertain that foul woman. Ron’s right. It would be beyond foolish.”
Ron felt buoyed by her comment and turned to Harry almost gloatingly. Harry was forced to respond, “Thanks, I don’t need either of you to tell me that. McGonagall said the same thing. I’m only still her partner because- Well, she’s actually a really good dancer.”
“At least she's good for something besides being evil.” Ron snorted. Harry's answer was mostly true and his friends seemed to buy it. He noticed that Malfoy was no longer sitting at the table and a confused looking Pansy was looking towards the entrance hall where Malfoy was storming off. Harry nearly rose up to follow her but stopped himself. "Either way Harry, you should probably get moving and ask someone. You can’t show up alone, it makes Hogwarts look bad.” Hermione was back to her book having not noticed anything. Ron was staring at some Beauxbatons girls at the Hufflepuff table and looked deep in thought. Harry stared at Rita's unpleasant image dancing on his paper and felt he had already made his decision.
------
The following days did not assuage any of Harry’s concerns regarding the Ball. Even though he had told himself a decision had been made, he still had not mustered the courage to ask Cho. Girls with whom he had never even spoken were approaching him at an alarming rate. And while he was flattered, he was also unwilling to accept any invitations if Cho was still available. At least his lessons with McGonagall were now going smoothly. Harry felt as though he had improved massively in such a short time. Once he realized Malfoy wouldn’t cut his head off in front of everyone, his focus was greatly improved. Even his private lessons with Malfoy became something to look forward to instead of something he dreaded. Spending the time learning to dance properly with Malfoy was a welcome break from the constant and unwanted outside attention. She also wasn’t nearly as abrasive in private.
The final class with McGonagall had involved a complete hands-on dance with a partner. And for the first time since it had been announced, Harry felt confident in the thought that he wouldn’t embarrass himself or the school. It was still awkward to hold Malfoy’s hand or touch her waist, so Harry was glad the classes in the public eye were over. Malfoy was adamant that his private lessons would continue right up to the Yule Ball. During one of Moody’s lectures, an Origami crane had flown onto his desk, and the letter inside was from none other than Malfoy. She had a habit of initialing DM on her work. The message was short and to the point:
~Two more sessions, 20th & 21st, Same place, Same time~
~DM~
“Has Malfoy at least gotten any better at her doodles? Let me see how she's tortured cartoon Harry this time.” Ron grabbed the letter before Harry could react, leaving him scrambling. Ron made a putrid face as he scanned the small square of paper. Harry looked anxiously over his arm and noticed the words had vanished, replaced by an animated Harry slipping and falling in a cartoony ballroom. “Tell her she’s improving. Git.” And Ron flung the drawing back to him. Harry looked over his shoulder to see Dracona laughing with Millicent Bulstrode, and Ron pulled his shoulder back. “Don’t mind them Harry- ” But Harry was almost too impressed to answer. He didn’t mind at all; Malfoy had used their public animosity as a perfect means to make their communication impervious. It was an incredible cover. Harry pulled his wand out and whispered ‘Incendio’ and the paper flamed into dust.
Harry was willing to continue the lessons, but he still lacked a partner for the Ball. And hiding away for private dances during personal hours seemed to work against meeting any women. Harry pondered this as he walked up to the seventh-floor. He saw Crabbe and Goyle were posted on opposite hallway corners in front of the danceroom. Harry found great joy in thinking up new ways of pestering his new fair-weather friends. “Sorry constables, but I think she wanted a double session today. Hope you both are free to stand around doing nothing for another three hours.” Harry started to chuckle as they worked out the time on both hands and looked troubled. But before he reached the door, he saw a group of Ravenclaws out of the corner of his eye.
A group of girls in their blue-lined robes were leaving Flitwick’s charms class, and Harry had spotted her. Cho was walking with them but she hadn't seen him and was making her way to the grand staircase. Harry looked panicked towards Goyle who stood vacantly, “Umm- Hold this, I’ll be back in a second, or two- Thanks.” Goyle held Harry’s bag as one would unwillingly handle a stranger's baby, and Harry ran after Cho. He caught up to her on the sixth floor and shouted across the bannister. “CHO! CHO! IT’S ME HARRY!”
Cho had heard him and stopped, but so had the crowd of girls who were with her. They giggled much to Harry’s displeasure while he caught his breath. “Ca- can we talk?” Harry was glad that Cho wasn’t laughing, and he managed to split her from her cackling classmates. Harry and Cho stopped in a small alcove, and as Harry tried to start talking a lump was forming in his throat. He knew he was nervous, he’d had eyes on Cho for a while, but something was making him apprehensive. Like he shouldn’t ask her at all.
“Wangoballwime?” Harry’s words came out in a jumbled and nervous wreck.
“Pardon me?” Cho waited graciously. Harry had to clear his throat.
“D’you- Do you want to go to the Ball with me?” Harry’s stomach leaped upon hearing his own voice. Despite having practiced this exact scenario hundreds of times, the words came out truncated and robotic. Cho’s face told Harry it was already too late. Her smile had faded at the edges, and her eyes drooped. “I’m really sorry Harry, but I’d already agreed to go with someone else.”
Harry figured as much and began wringing his hands reflexively. “Yeah. No- That’s great. I just figured… Yeah.” His insides had stopped doing flips and now he wondered if he had any guts at all. A great hollow sensation became overwhelming, and he wanted nothing more than to walk back up the stairs. “Sorry Harry, I’ll get going now. See you later okay?” Cho gave a pained look and Harry made an unconscious wave before slowly ascending the stairs back to the seventh-floor. He fought an incredible urge to ask who she was going with, but it didn't matter. Now he only wanted to crawl back to his bed and never come out. But he was already late in meeting with Malfoy. As he approached, Crabbe began to grin upon seeing his expression. Goyle exited the studio, closing the door behind him. He was without Harry’s bag. He grunted and motioned with his neck as if to say, ‘It’s in there’.
Malfoy was sitting in the center of the dancefloor holding Harry’s bag, rifling through his papers and reading. Normally Harry would be outraged at such an invasion of his privacy, but currently Harry felt a bitter nothingness and simply walked to the partition in the corner to change. As Harry changed she spoke out loud, “While you’re nice and occupied, I’m letting you know I took the liberty of pilfering through your things, Potter. No secret love letters, So sad! But what a relief, good to know you'll be nice and focused today.” Harry wasn’t really listening as he put on his dress shoes. “Hurry up in there lover boy, remember that we’re on a tight schedule. You gave me a date and time for a reason.”
Harry stepped out and made way for Malfoy, who was reclining on her elbows and looking at him upside down. “Why not just come here already dressed? You could wear that stupid cloak, it would be easy.” She was holding up a single parchment with Harry’s Defense Against the Dark Arts notes on it. He snatched the paper and his bag back from her, stuffing his things inside. “Because you said it would scare the two trolls standing outside. Also people will notice if I change in the dormitory. I already told you. Believe me, if I could avoid you, I would.” Harry was very aggravated and didn’t like repeating himself. Malfoy stood up and moved to turn on the music. “You can’t dance well if you’re in a pissy mood, Potter. Come, take my hand.”
Harry threw his bag into her usual chair and stomped over to her and clenched her hand. Harry immediately regretted this as a look of consternation grew across her face. He loosened his grip, putting a hand on her waist and letting her take the lead. They spun around the room in a fairly simple maneuver five or so times, something they must’ve done a hundred times by this point over two weeks. She was looking at him quizzically, as if trying to study his thoughts. He didn't like it. Harry was growing frustrated as to why they were still practicing such simple steps. After McGonagall’s lessons had ended, Harry didn’t think he needed further instruction.
Harry piped up, “Can we just skip the warm up please and do something different?” But he felt like he spoke too loudly. Malfoy released him and flung him three or more steps forward. “You want to skip practice. Fine. Forget the basics. Jump straight to the incredible stuff for the stupendous Potter. You tell me how to teach, go on.” Harry was irked and regretted saying anything, “I don’t understand you Malfoy. Why even put me through all of this. Why are you even doing this? Why are you taking this so seriously? No one is watching us. D’you get some sort of sick laugh watching me embarrass myself?” Malfoy had stopped pacing in circles around him now and had begun massaging her arms through the sleeves of her grey sweater. “I’ve already told you that, Potter. What’s got you so distracted you want to quit all of the sudden?”
Harry had dug himself into a hole with a conversation he never meant to start. “Forget it, you know that’s not what I meant. Doesn’t matter why, I’m just not in the mood today.” Malfoy looked at him sternly before flicking off the music with a sigh. “Goyle told me as much. He’s more observant than you’d think… Don’t worry, you’ll find someone else.” Harry didn’t understand what she meant.
Malfoy approached him closely and Harry became afraid. She slowly and somewhat awkwardly put a hand on his shoulder. Her face looked strained and discomforted.
“Forget about that Cho girl, Harry.”
Harry was stunned for some reason. How had she known? Why had she called him Harry? Why was she treating him like a child? Before he could process everything, he’d already smacked her hand off of him. He lashed out, “Why do you care about who I ask!? What business of yours is that? And who told you?” Malfoy held her arm with the opposite hand and looked indignant. “Goyle. Goyle told me. I already told you. He said you ran after Cho. It was a good guess. You know why? Because I already knew, Harry. I watched Cedric ask Cho three days ago.” Her tone was stern but there was implicit strain in her voice, like it pained her to explain herself. It made Harry even angrier.
“Stop teasing me Malfoy, I don’t wanna hear it.” Harry tried walking away.
“What!?” Malfoy was also getting riled up. She barged through her chair knocking it over as she distanced herself from Harry. “Harry! YOU waited too long for Cho, and YOU lost your chance. I'm NOT teasing, it's the truth! YOU acted the SAME way you do with dancing. YOU got yourself frozen up thinking instead of just doing it. Don’t blame me Harry, you-”
“SHUT UP MALFOY! JUST SHUT UP!”
Malfoy’s eyes sank as she stopped speaking mid thought.
“STOP CALLING ME HARRY!” He screamed.
“Since when have you ever called me anything other than Potter?” He was losing his patience. “I’ve been asking myself why I keep coming back here. Just to waste time with someone who hates me. You keep begging me to show up and do the same damned moves over and over again. Turn, turn, half turn. I'm SICK of dancing with you!” Harry was shaking all over. That empty feeling had been replaced by a seething rage. And all of it was directed entirely at her.
“You never had to say yes! You could leave whenever you want, you ass!” Malfoy choked back at him, staying far away.
Harry lost control and ran up to her, “Except you don’t mean that! If you think keeping me here is going to make me ask you to that stupid Ball, You’re dead wrong! It’s never going to happen!” Dracona got very quiet and crossed her arms. She couldn't hide how hurt she was feeling and her eyes were turning red and glassy. “Like you’d even ask. And now you’re back to how you usually treat me. Like everyone does to me. The same as that Mudblood and Weasley… You're all the same. Please, just leave if you hate me that much…”
“Oh come off it- Stop joking around and leave me alone! Stay away from me.” Harry contemptuously grabbed his things while Malfoy was standing alone in the middle of the room. She didn’t say another word. She only watched him with a destitute look in her eyes. Harry faltered for a moment, as he could've sworn he saw her lip quiver. Harry entered the partition in the corner and thought about changing, when he heard the door slam behind him. Peeking his head out of the curtain, he saw the room was empty all except for his reflection in the wall. Harry stepped out into the hallway, and there was no sign of Malfoy, Crabbe or Goyle. Harry was suddenly overcome with an immense feeling of shame. He wished he could take those words back, wished he could go back to feeling empty, this felt so much worse. Harry made the long march back to the Gryffindor dormitory with his head lowered; his dress shoes clacked loudly with each step, echoing through the empty hall.
------
Art by @Grin2702
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