Narcissa Malfoy looked like she was falling from the hinges, which her son Draco noticed with a slight pang of guilt that he unsuccessfully tried to ignore. His stomach churned slightly at the scarlet sight of the Hogwarts Express, one that normally would have purveyed him with happiness at just another school year...
But this was not just another school year, at least not for Draco Malfoy, who was feeling tension so insurmountable that it was presented in his face by a scowl. The scowl itself was not unusual, but there was a certain pensiveness in his cold grey eyes that would have been unnerving to anyone who knew the now sixteen-year-old boy well. Usually his mind was buzzing with schemes to get Potter and his doting friends in trouble, but now he had a task that would involve himself that much closer with Potter’s circle.
The Mudblood. His stomach churned again, and his scowl hardened. He fingered the spot on the robes where last year’s prefect badge would have been worn, but this year he had not been chosen as prefect again, providing him with more time to...He didn’t want to think about it. His eyes flickered back to his mother unwillingly. She looked like she was trying to restrain herself from crying out, a look she had been wearing since the Dark Lord had delegated him the most heinously impossible task that his life, and his parents’ lives, depended on. The Dark Lord. He gave an involuntary shudder he could not repress with the image of those red slits for eyes, the long-fingered hands, the serpentine features, and beyond them all...that voice. High, cold, and chilling, the Dark Lord let his wants be known...and if he was displeased, terrible things could happen...would happen.
“Do your best in your studies and all your pursuits, Draco,” Narcissa said with surprising steadiness, although her blue eyes were misting. Draco thought he knew what Narcissa was hinting at by ‘pursuits’, but gave no more thought to it. He would enjoy himself today. Stay in a compartment with Crabbe and Goyle and the other Slytherins like he always did, and laugh at the increasing shrimp-like stature of the first-years. Everything would be the same, if only for today.
Narcissa nodded at her son, clearly unable to utter a comprehensible goodbye. Her composure had expired, it seemed. Draco offered his mother a smile so forced it hurt, but it was the least he could do. His mother was often overprotective to an annoying extent, but she had not, and would not be able to protect him from his fate if he failed.
“Crabbe, Goyle,” Draco said carelessly to his friends, who wore their perpetual vacant expressions and who both seemed to have grown substantially both in height and width over the summers. The three of them sidled into an empty compartment, soon to be joined by Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson, who had long harbored a not-so-secret attraction to Draco, who did not reciprocate her same level of devotion, but whom he regarded highly all the same.
“Good summers?” Zabini asked, but it was clear his question was rhetorical and asked purely out of saccharin politeness that did not fool Draco. Draco knew that Zabini was only in their company because he thought he was superior to them and wanted to exploit that, which was how Draco himself felt about Crabbe and Goyle. “I went to a congregational meeting between influential wizards, including Colbronde, and I met...” His voice trailed off and his hands snaked over to his school bag and he retrieved a photograph, which he handed over gloatingly to Draco.
“A toad?” Draco could not help but cultivate his well-practiced smirk. The photograph was of a girl who looked like she could have been Umbridge’s niece, with her pouchy eyes and slack, flabby mouth. A ridiculously loopy and illegible signature was scrawled hastily on the right corner of the photograph.
Zabini glared at him, snatching the photograph back. “I’m not going out with her,” he said scathingly. “It’s Asrai,” he snarled. Asrai. Draco had the impression that it was a name belonging to someone significant in the magical community, but he could not think what a witch with such an uncanny resemblance to their fifth-year’s Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher could have to do with anything Zabini found impressive.
Zabini rolled his eyes at the lack of comprehension on the Slytherins’ faces. “The first Naturagus in magical history,” he explained witheringly, as if that was something they all should have known. “She can turn into a puddle by will.”
“Naturagus,” repeated Gregory Goyle stupidly, as if he intended to store the vocabulary in his mind in the future. Unable to say something thrusting in response, he reverted back to his comic book in silence.
After that, a silence took over the compartment, which left Draco to brood about his predicament, the last thing he wanted to do. Pansy continually cast him furtive looks, clearly wondering why he was neglecting to attend to her like she wanted him too. She sniffed in impatience and annoyance and gave up trying to catch his attention. If Pansy could have seen into his thoughts, she would have been scandalized that he had been thinking about another girl. Hermione Granger was certainly not someone he ever thought about, but the plan and the task of leading Harry Potter to the Dark Lord was one that centered entirely around her, no doubt for the maximum humiliation for the Malfoys. His insides burned with the indignation of the plan”have Hermione Granger fall in love with him? The idea would have been laughable if it had not been one that would control his fate...whether he lived.
Back in the comforts of the Slytherin dungeon, Draco immediately retreated to his dormitory. He was the only one, and was glad for it as he sat on the four-poster bed amid the emerald-green covers. The window revealed stormy weather, matching his inner angst that culminated inside of him, threatening to burst. Imprisoned in his own thoughts for so long as he languidly lay across the bed, he was unaware of falling asleep as his eyelids began to droop, lulling him into uneasy dreams...
He was in a dark and dank dungeon, the only light flickering from the lighthouse far, far away. A crookedly constructed four-legged table was laden with a roster of foods that left his mouth watering. He walked over to the table and pulled out a throne-like chair, a perfect irony to the poor craftsmanship of the table. As he readied his knife and fork to cut into a hearty steak, the steak immediately turned into a human face. To his great shock, it was Hermione Granger, and the rest of her materialized directly from the table. With a clatter, he dropped his knife and fork, stunned beyond disbelief. The scene changed. They were in what looked like a ballroom. She was dressed in periwinkle blue robes, which he dimly recalled as the same ones she’d worn to the Yule Ball in their fourth year. Her hair was not bushy like it usually was, but sleek and cascading freely past her shoulders. She was smiling the way one might afore a particularly inquisitive and bright child. “Draco, Draco,” she said teasingly. “What have you been up to?”
Draco woke with a start, his thoughts racing a marathon, his hands curled tightly into fists, though he was unaware of it with his heart beating at a rapid pace. The dream was becoming less clear in his mind...a poorly lit dungeon...he had been about to eat steak...the steak had turned into Granger, who had looked...well, he didn’t think there could be another word for it...beautiful. She had said his name...his first name. He felt thoroughly confused and disgruntled by his feelings. His watch told him it was half past midnight. Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini were all fast asleep, perfectly unaware that a member of their dormitory was awake and shaken at the thoughts and feelings that he’d invoked after the dream.