It was unusually dark in the bedroom of Draco Malfoy. He liked it this way, as it matched his current mood. Usually, this room was the one place where he felt like he could be himself; where he didn’t have to present a face he hated to the rest of the world, but in the last few weeks, he’d had to put up with quite a bit concerning his father and mother.
His father, Lucius Malfoy, had been re-arrested for possessing some ‘questionable objects’. Lucius had been placed back into Azkaban prison just weeks after he was released following an arrest stemming from his discovery in a forbidden room in the Ministry of Magic nearly a year previous. Lucius had been attempting to steal something for the Dark Lord. Draco felt sick at the sight of his father being led away in shackles, watched like a hawk by Ministry of Magic Aurors and Arthur Weasley, who worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.
Weasel-King’s dad must have found that vastly amusing, Draco thought bitterly. What a sodding git.
It hadn’t been a picnic here at Malfoy Manor since that day. Narcissa Malfoy, Draco’s mother, had taken to drilling into him the obligations of being a Malfoy; always being the very best and remembering he was a pureblood wizard. Draco heard this over and over again, and had grown quite tired of it. He’d begun making excuses not to be around his mother any more than he needed to.
Draco knew his mother was acting that way to save face; she had begun drinking heavily, falling down quite often and throwing empty Ogden’s Firewhiskey bottles against her bedroom wall. When she wasn’t badgering Draco, she was sitting in her room crooning to her reflection. The house elves were not allowed to enter her room during these times, but that didn’t seem to bother them; they had taken to caring for Draco to the point where he’d locked himself into his room to escape the ridiculousness of it all.
He walked over to the huge window looked down at the immaculate rose garden. It was his mother’s pride and joy, one she often bragged about to her snobby, socialite, wizarding friends. Soon this might all be gone, he thought sullenly; the Ministry of Magic had seized and frozen all of the Malfoy’s asset and accounts, making life for Draco and his mother very difficult indeed. While it had been proven that Lucius Malfoy was a hated Death Eater, one of the Dark Lord’s minions, the same could not be said for Narcissa and Draco.
Draco knew that would change; he was a Malfoy, therefore expected to do certain things. He was not looking forward to joining his father at the Dark Lord’s side, and had expressed this once many years ago, to his father’s great displeasure.
“He will be most pleased with you, I think, Draco,” Lucius Malfoy drawled, seated in a large wing-back chair near a roaring fire, swirling his glass of brandy.
Thirteen-year-old Draco stood in the middle of the room, his head white-blonde head bowed, saying nothing.
“The Dark Lord likes his servants to be cunning, quick, and loyal. Are you those things, Draco?”
“Yes, Father.” Draco replied obediently, looking at his shoes.
“Loyal, Draco; remember that. The Dark Lord expects me to be loyal to him, and I expect you to be loyal to me.” Lucius’ gaze bore into Draco’s head so deeply that the young boy nearly winced in pain.
“I understand, Father.”
“One day, when you join the Greatest Wizard of All Time, you will need to remember your place and to whom you are loyal to.”
Draco’s head snapped up at this. “When I join...? Father, I never agreed--” He could not finish; his father’s face suddenly loomed before him.
“Silence.” Lucius did not have to raise his voice; the cold, venomous tone spoke volumes. “You are a Malfoy, and therefore have certain obligations regarding this family. You will swear your allegiance to the Dark Lord, do you understand me?”
“Yes, Father.” Draco bit his lip. He wanted to shout out that he didn’t want to join He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but knew his father would not take that news happily.
Lucius continued: “We will put and end to all Mudbloods and Blood Traitors. We will once again be a great wizarding community; all Muggles will tremble before us! We will live like kings!”
“...Like kings,” Draco scoffed, slamming his hand against the window pane. “We are living as empty shells of kings, thanks to you, Father.”
His gaze traveled to a small box laying on the table next to his bed. If his mother knew about this, she’d be so disappointed in Draco, but he felt that at this moment, he had no choice; Draco had an obligation to his mother to keep up appearances, no matter what the consequences. Would she ever understand what he was about to do with what lay inside the box?
‘Obligation...’ ; this line whispered over and over in Draco’s head, sometimes even in the dead of night when all was still and silent. He wanted to scream, to shout that he was sick of obligations; he was seventeen years old, and still unsure of what he wanted to become. Draco was his father’s son, but not his father. Lucius’ choices were not his own; Draco had very different values and beliefs, but did not dare show them to others, for he loved Lucius and did not want to disappoint him.
He had no one to speak to about this, this sick, everything-is-spinning-out-of-control feeling, for he had no real friends to confide in. Crabbe and Goyle were not really close to him; they were like stupid leeches, hanging onto him to receive scraps of celebrity and the chance to impress him with their brawn, but neither were capable of holding an intelligent thought, therefore leaving Draco without a true friend.
His thoughts suddenly strayed to someone unexpected: Harry Potter. Draco sneered at the thought of the dark-haired boy with the lightning scar. “Saint Potter,” he spat. “Never without his share of friends, now is he? I wonder what spell the bleeding sod had to put on Weasel and the Mudblood to keep them from running away.”
But even as he said this, Draco felt a pang of jealousy. Potter had true friends, as was evident in the sacrifices they made for him. Draco knew no spell could make anyone do that for another human being. If only I could have that, Draco thought with the tiniest hint of wistfulness, then perhaps I would finally be happy.
It was at this moment, Draco heard a loud tap-tap-tap on the window he’d just walked away from. Crossing over to the window, Draco threw wide the sash. A large gray owl zoomed into the room, carrying something in its beak. This was not his owl, so who’d be sending him something this late in the day?
The bird landed at the foot of his king-size bed. It hooted softly around a slip of paper in its beak. Draco withdrew the parchment; it was crumpled and stained by a dark liquid. He opened it and read:
Mr. Malfoy,
I have news that would greatly please your father. Please meet me at The Leaky Cauldron tomorrow at noon. I’ll be wearing the green feather.
-A Friend
Draco stared a moment at the note in his hand. As though I don’t have enough to worry about, he scoffed. Who was this person and what news did they have? Did it pertain to the Dark Lord? Draco turned away from the owl in disgust. The bird hooted questioningly, turning its head to stare at him. It ruffled its feather once more, but did not take flight; it seemed to be waiting on him to do something.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting a reply then?” Draco drawled, striding over to his huge desk that stood to right of the fireplace at the far end of the chamber. He withdrew a quill, ink bottle and a slip of parchment.
Here Draco paused. What if he didn’t meet with this mysterious person? What would his father do or say if he discovered this had been important information, and it had not been received? Father would not be pleased, Draco sighed heavily. And that is quite an understatement. Lucius Malfoy was a man of many sides, and one of them was best not shown, as he had unusual ways of making one feel terror and pain; it was no wonder he was one the Dark Lord’s most talented Death Eaters.
Again, Draco sighed. He had enough on his plate as it was, and getting involved with his father’s affairs had not been on Draco’s agenda.
‘Obligation..’ a voice whispered softly. There it was again; reminding him; berating him...taunting him. Draco snarled as he suddenly bent over to pen a quick reply. Automatically, he folded the letter then dripped hot wax from a nearby candle upon it, and blotted it with his ring bearing the Malfoy Crest. He didn’t care much that he’d used the wrong wax or that the seal was sloppy; he just wanted to get the damn bird out of here.
Taking the letter from Draco, the owl spread its wings and zoomed off into the evening air. The letter it had left behind was unceremoniously tossed into the fire in the massive marble fireplace.
As Draco stared unblinkingly into the fire, a sudden gust of wind swirled around the room, causing the flames to dance. Shivering slightly, Draco realized he’d forgotten to close the window. He turned back to do so, and was quite startled by a small tawny owl sitting upon his bed. It was carrying something in its beak; something Draco recognized immediately.
“Ah, Hogwarts, the School of Witchcraft and Misery,” he chuckled, approaching the bird and taking the heavy yellowed envelope from it. Immediately Draco noticed something unusual; the missive felt lumpy, almost a bit heavy.
Without a word, Draco split open the envelope. A shiny badge fell out into his hand. He read the word imprinted upon the face and smiled. “Head Boy,” he smirked. “How very lucky for me.”
He quickly scanned the enclosed papers, then set the badge down on the night stand next the small, hand-carved, lacquered box. Draco opened it, looked at the item inside, then closed it once again.
“It looks like I will be having quite a busy day tomorrow,” he said to no one in particular.
Again, he looked at his Head Boy badge. He wondered whom Dumbledore had chosen to be Head Girl? It was likely not another Slytherin, so his first guess, Pansy Parkinson, would be incorrect. Granger? Maybe. One of the Patil sisters? Perhaps.
It didn’t really matter; whoever she was, she’d be no match for him. Draco would run circles around her, and then he’d be able to ensure Slytherin’s win of the House Cup and, perhaps, give his father something to be proud of.
He scoffed silently to himself at this. It seemed that regardless of where he went, Draco’s obligation to his family would continue to haunt him. He must remember to keep up appearances after he left home to attend school; he vowed he would not let his family down.
“The Head Girl is going to wish Dumbledore had chosen the Head Boy a bit more carefully,” Draco snickered aloud.