However, any thoughts of his mother caused chills of fear to run up and down Draco’s spine. The last memory he had of her was as she lay on the dirt, covered floor, drenched in sweat and blood; a soundless scream escaping from her mouth.
Shaking his head to get rid of the image, Draco idly wondered if Potter would keep an extra set of eyes on him now. He hadn’t meant to threaten the saviour of the wizarding world, but Potter always pushed his buttons.
Sighing in frustration, Draco crawled into bed. He really hoped that tomorrow was easier than today had been. At least, he hadn’t killed the Mudblood, he cheerily mused; that had to count for something.
Draco woke the next day to a pair of brown eyes watching him resolutely. He groaned inwardly in frustration at the realization that it was the Mudblood. And so early in the morning too!
“Fewat?”
“Yes, Mud-Granger?”
“I’m hungwy”
“Go away,” he huffed, rolling to his side, and turning his back on the young brunette.
“I’m hungwy, Fewat!” she began whining.
“Then find yourself some food, Mud-Granger.”
“You make it, Fewat!”
Scowling, Draco crawled out of bed, and pushed the Mudblood out of his way. He looked at himself in the mirror and thought how futile it was to maintain an impeccable image whilst living with the riffraff that currently presided in the home of his ancestors. Mutely, he grabbed an abandoned hairbrush and made his hair presentable. He at least had that over Potter: good hair.
The Mudblood, clearly amused at his antics, ran up to him and demanded he do her hair, too.
“Me next, Fewat!” she happily cried out.
“No!”
Pouting, the Mudblood crossed her little arms over her chest and sat with a heavy thud on the floor. “Me next!”
“No, Granger! Besides, I thought you were hungry,” Draco tried reasoning, horrified at going near the Mudblood’s hair. He wondered if perhaps he’d get away with carrying her all the way downstairs while she threw a fit, or if he’d end up with tiny bruises all over his body. However, before Draco could fully analyze the situation to suit his Slytherin needs, he heard the voice of Potter cutting sharply through his thoughts.
“Why don’t you just do her hair, Malfoy? It’s not like it’ll attack you.”
“Because, Potter you only said I was to look after her well-being, not her appearance,” he answered smugly. “And trust me “ there’s nothing I can do make her appear better.”
Raising an eyebrow in challenge, Potter walked over to him and looked him square in the eyes. They stood staring at each other in anger and contempt. Time paused, and both young men seemed to be sizing each other up for a good throw down when the Mudblood’s tiny, yet happy, squeal of ‘Mum Weazy’ broke through their non-verbal violence.
Draco turned to the door and saw the red-head standing there with a curious look in her face. Deciding he didn’t want to deal with two Gryffindors, Draco promptly bent down to pick up the Mudblood, cradled her on his narrow hips, and left the room without another word. Mrs. Weasley watched him walk down the stairs as Hermione babbled on about milk, eggs, and bacon for breakfast.
As soon as the blond head disappeared, Mrs. Weasley rounded on Harry and stared pointedly at him.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry muttered, head hanging and avoiding her eyes.
Draco stood in front of the empty cupboard wondering what he could give to the Mudblood for breakfast. He had no clue what young children ate for nutrition, but he knew the stale box of biscuits in the corner weren’t going to be enough. Just as he picked up said food item, he threw them back rather roughly as the Weasley matron walked into the room.
“Good morning, Draco,” she greeted cheerfully.
“Good morning,” he mumbled, searching for food with more nutritional value for the Mudblood now that the red-head was around to monitor him. However, he ended up standing there looking lost and confused.
“You know, Draco, we keep the food in the kitchen pantry and not the cupboard out here.”
“Oh…erm…yes. Pantry in the kitchen,” he repeated, heading in the general direction of the kitchen.
Mrs. Weasley furrowed her brows with concern as she watched him hopelessly rummage through the contents of the pantry. He came back with a box of oatmeal and put it down on the table. Amused, Mrs. Weasley continued staring as he opened the box and stared inside.
The boy was rather clueless, she realized sadly, and proceeded to help him fix oatmeal for Hermione.
“You have to cook that, Draco. It’s not cooked.”
“What? Well, how do you cook it? I don’t have a wand,” he sneered.
“You don’t need a wand to cook, young man. Now follow me,” she answered sternly, grabbing the box of oatmeal while heading to the kitchen. Draco followed her and watched as she set about boiling water and measuring cups of oatmeal. To his chagrin he noticed she was doing it all with a wand.
“Mrs. Weasley,” he began tersely, “I believe you said I didn’t need a wand, yet you’re using one yourself.”
“Well, I’m showing you the steps, Draco. Surely a bright boy like yourself, who I’ve heard is brilliant at Potions, can use some of those same skills to cook.”
He scowled. As if his day hadn’t already been just peachy keen, now it had icing on top.
By the time, Draco managed to cook the oatmeal, it was half-past noon and Mrs. Weasley had gently patted him on the shoulder while throwing away his disaster. He stared sadly at the glump of goo in the rubbish bin. It felt like such a waste of time. For a minute, Draco pondered that this must be how Longbottom had felt all those years in his godfather’s class.
“Perhaps, you added too much salt, dear.”
Draco raised an eyebrow.
“You can always try again tomorrow.”
Draco’s eyebrow lifted another inch. Sure, he would, and tomorrow he’d become best friends with the Mudblood.
Draco was so lost in his angry thoughts that he failed to listen to the busybody who was apparently still talking to him.
“Draco, are you listening? Boys!” she huffed.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Weasley, you were saying?”
“I was saying that it’s already half-past noon and you’ve yet to prepare Hermione for the day. She’s still wearing her pyjamas, for Merlin’s pants. You need to set up a routine for both of you until you’ve reversed this damage or else she’ll run amuck. And I’m pretty sure that Hermione’s parents gave her a lot of structure. I don’t mean to lecture you, dear, but at this rate you’ll be raising Hermione all over again through some of a child’s most important developmental years….”
Draco scowled, not listening to her irritating voice anymore. Was this bint saying what he thought she was saying? That he wasn’t good enough to be a single father? Well, he’d show her and the rest of the Gryffindor goody-two-shoes.
Grabbing the Mudblood’s hand, he pulled her off her chair in the kitchen and dragged her up the stairs.
After spending the rest of the day locked up in the library, only venturing down to grab sandwiches for him and the Mudblood during lunch, Draco had planned out a well-structured routine. He stared at his handy-work and couldn’t have felt more proud. It was almost like creating a studying timetable back at Hogwarts.
He smiled bitterly at the memory of Hogwarts, remembering that it was partly his fault the war had progressed so quickly. After looking at his list titled Mudblood’s Daily Schedule, he picked up the book he had been reading earlier: Magical Parenting: The Ups & Downs. Truth be told, he was surprised to have found this in the house of Black, but then realized that the book gravitated towards more ‘unusual’ punishments, and questionable parenting skills “ no wonder his cousin had run-away. Still, he read it purposefully, hoping to find some information of relevance in the book.
Looking around, he spotted his charge in the corner of the library where he had left her after handing over some parchment and quills. She had asked for ‘cwawons’ but he had just stared at her in confusion. As much as it annoyed him, he made a note to ask Potter what ‘cwawons’ were; he was almost sure it was some Muggle item of which he had no knowledge. Draco looked down at his to do list and his notes on the side:
1. Find a solution to this mess I got myself into “ working on it
2. Create a schedule/routine for the Mudblood “ check and mate
3. Ask Potter what ‘cwawons’ are “ dubious
4. Get Mudblood (MB) a new ‘Bob’ “ piece of cake
Time to work on number four. It was a piece of cake, really. All he needed was an elf. Resolute, Draco went over to the Mudblood’s corner, as he so fondly referred to it, and noticed she had fallen asleep. He considered leaving her for the minute he’d need to fetch a new stuffed animal but, considering what happened last time, he opted to wake her.
“Mud-Granger, wake up,” he ordered haughtily. Upon further consideration, he realized that the four-year old currently taking a nap wasn’t going to yield to his authority like others did. After all, she didn’t know who or what a ‘Mafly’ was, as she had stated earlier when he had said he was a Malfoy, and thus didn’t know that everyone listened to him. He grimaced at the memory and the butchering of his last name: “Mafly? What’s a Mafly? Is it like a Bob? When I getting another Bob? You pwomised me another Bob. Do you keep your pwomises, Fewat?”
It had pained him to think of breaking his promise to a four-year old girl. His own father had broken many promises to him growing up, and he recalled the pain as if it were only yesterday.
Gently picking up the Mudblood, Draco carried her to his room and lay her on the bed. Then he walked downstairs and called for Potter -- as much as it pained him.
“Potter!” he sneered.
“Malfoy, back for a second round?” Potter taunted.
Draco scowled.
“Actually, I’m here to borrow your elf, Kreacher.”
“Kreacher? Why?”
“I need him for an errand.”
“An errand?” scoffed the four-eyed git. “How do I know you’re not sending a message to your Dark Lord--”
Potter never finished his question as Draco’s fist connected with his mouth. A fight ensued; both boys began violently thrashing each other on the floor, fists flying, and curses muttered.
Draco felt the metallic taste of blood inside his mouth, and spit out some of it. Just as he pulled back his fist for another shot at Potter’s nose, he heard a woman screech and a man shout; then everything went black.
When Draco came to, he was lying on the couch in the living room, a cold, wet towel over his nose. Potter was sitting across from him, scowling at the werewolf. The busy-body red-head was fussing over the wailing Mudblood, and he noticed that the one-eyed Auror was pointing a wand at him.
“Oh good, you’re awake, Draco,” the werewolf muttered.