Ambition's Downfall by goldensnidget92
Chapter Notes: Again, I had to use a few quotes from the book for this chapter. They're from pages 175-80 of Half-Blood Prince, UK edition, and all italicised. Hope you enjoy reading :)
The excitement that permeated the air of Hogwarts at the start of each year was tangible. Everywhere you went you heard shrieks of laughter, catcalls, moans about homework and excited voices discussing the gossip people had missed out on over the holidays. First years walked around in tight packs, gazing in confusion at the tangle of passageways, staircases and classrooms that was Hogwarts.
This year, however, although Draco knew that nothing had changed, he found it more difficult to join in with the celebratory atmosphere. He was pleased to be back, whatever he said to his friends: two months of nervous silence and frightened glances from his mother had almost been too much to bear. And yet, now he was here, he didn’t feel right. He knew he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone of his involvement with the Dark Lord, but he was never able to forget it, and keeping something like that so secret was more challenging than he had thought.
Still, things weren’t all going badly. The first thing Draco had done was to seek out Montague and try to find out the whereabouts of the Vanishing Cabinet. It was lucky Montague was so thick, because he didn’t seem to suspect anything. He told Draco that when he had accosted the Weasley twins, he must have been on the first floor, because he remembered coming up from the kitchens when he saw them. That night, Draco had scoured every room on the first floor and, lo and behold, in the corner of an abandoned classroom, sat an ancient-looking black cabinet, identical to the one he had seen in Borgin’s shop. He didn’t think anyone would bother to move it, not after all these years, but just to be safe he cast a Disillusionment Charm upon it until he could find a safer place to keep it.
He was a little worried, however, as he had been directing all his thoughts towards trying to get Death Eaters into the castle, and he had been ignoring his main task: he still didn’t know how he was going to kill Dumbledore; and after hearing that the Dark Lord was already doubtful of his abilities, he was becoming doubtful himself. He knew he had to do it, had to prove that he was different to his father; but he had to admit that his creative juices were running low. He wasn’t exactly experienced in the field of killing, and he wasn’t sure how to start. Draco had therefore decided to focus his attention on the Vanishing Cabinet, and hoped that some inspiration would come to him in time.
Meanwhile, he had his lessons to contend with. He hadn’t anticipated how much harder NEWTs were than OWLs, and he was having trouble keeping on top of his schoolwork already. On Wednesday afternoon, he found himself traipsing down towards the dungeons for his first Potions lesson of the year. As he rounded a corner, he was disgruntled to see that he would be sharing this lesson with Potter, Weasley and Granger Mudblood. His annoyance at seeing Potter enter the Great Hall after his revenge on the first night had subsided quickly: he supposed that everyone would be watching out for the ‘Chosen One’, and instead he consoled himself with remembering how nicely Potter’s nose had crunched under his foot.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Horace Slughorn’s gargantuan belly wobbling through the door a good few seconds before the rest of him, and he hurried to the front of the classroom with his fellow Slytherins. Although he had laughed it off, he was anxious to prove himself to Slughorn: anyone who was anyone appeared on Slughorn’s famous ‘shelf’, and Draco intended to make it too. A large cauldron containing a transparent liquid was bubbling sluggishly at the Slytherins’ table, and Draco was jolted from his thoughts when Slughorn plodded over to it. “Anyone tell me what this one is?”
From the back of the classroom he heard the all-too-familiar gasp of excitement, followed by the bossy, insufferable voice of Hermione Granger. “It’s Veritaserum, a colourless, odourless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth.”
Well, he knew that. Honestly, that girl was such a suck-up that she could never bear to consider that others might know just as much as she did. Draco could already see Slughorn succumbing to the adoration almost every teacher had of the girl. It wasn’t until she mentioned Polyjuice Potion, however, that he began to pay attention. He had often wondered if it might come in useful, but had never been sure if he could make it. He didn’t want to risk making it incorrectly – especially if it was him taking it – but now here was a large cauldron full of the stuff. How could he get it? Could he make a distraction? The loud grumble of Slughorn’s gravelly voice intercepted these thoughts, and Draco realised that he really should try to make a good impression on this man, and tried to pay attention.
“Oho!” Slughorn cried, dramatically, turning towards a tiny black cauldron on his desk. “Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious potion called Felix Felicis.” Another dramatic gasp left Granger’s mouth, and Slughorn smiled indulgently. The two should get together the way they were going on. “I take it that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?”
“It’s liquid luck. It makes you lucky!”
Draco was fully alert now, staring fixedly at the little cauldron. A potion that could make you lucky? That could solve all his problems. It would be easy to fix the Vanishing Cabinet, to get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and even to kill Dumbledore. How on earth could he get his hands on something like that?
“Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong,” Slughorn was saying. “However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavours tend to succeed… at least until the effects wear off.”
“Why don’t people use it all the time, Sir?” asked a Ravenclaw boy, voicing the query Draco himself had been wondering at. Surely it could make your life perfect.
“Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness and dangerous overconfidence. Too much of a good thing, you know… highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally…” He trailed off, and Draco feverishly imagined obtaining this potion. He was sure it wasn’t that bad if you took it a little too much… “And that,” continued Slughorn, “is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson. One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis. Enough for twelve hours’ luck. From dawn to dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt.”
Draco nearly laughed. He actually had a chance of legitimately owning this potion! And he would get it. As soon as Slughorn had instructed them on how to win it, Draco was frantically leafing through the pages of his Potions book, assembling his ingredients, and trying to cut them smoothly with his shaking hands.
Half an hour in, it wasn’t going well. The Draft of Living Death had to be the hardest potion he’d ever attempted, and the Sopophorus Bean which he was supposed to be cutting was stubbornly refusing to be tampered with. His only consolation was that, in the buzz of activity, he had siphoned off some Polyjuice Potion into a flask. If he didn’t manage to get the Felix Felicis, at least he’d have got something out of this lesson.
He looked around furtively at his fellows’ work, and was heartened to see that many people had looks of panic on their faces as their solutions congealed nastily at the bottom of their cauldrons. Even Granger had lost her normal air of smug complacency. He looked up as Slughorn neared his table, and decided to show the man exactly why he should be of interest. “Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxus Malfoy?”
“Yes, I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn’t unexpected, dragon pox at his age…” he trailed off again, and wandered absent-mindedly over to the Ravenclaw table. Draco stared at him, dumbfounded. There was only one reason Slughorn would not want to know more about the grandson of the esteemed Abraxus Malfoy, although he didn’t want to admit it. He knew there must have been some truth in what Zabini had said on the train, but he wasn’t used to being treated like everyone else. He stabbed at the Sopophorus Bean viciously, without thinking, and it slipped from his grasp, hitting Zabini in the head.
“Watch it, Malfoy,” he snarled, and then smirked when he saw Draco’s lack of progress. “Looks like some of us won’t be able to rely on favouritism to pass this year!”
Draco seethed silently, loathe to admit that Zabini had a point, but unable to ignore the rapidly mounting evidence. He paid little attention to the rest of the lesson. What had seemed to be starting out as a good day was fast becoming intolerable and, to top it all, Potter won the Felix Felicis. On a normal day, he may have felt smug that for once Granger had been beaten, but now he just didn’t care. As Slughorn called an end to the class, Draco followed Zabini out of the room as quickly as possible, but as he neared the end of the dungeon corridor, he heard a sharp voice call his name. He spun around at the familiar sound, and saw Professor Snape standing outside his office, beckoning at him to come in.
“I’ll see you later,” he mumbled to Zabini, and, heart sinking, followed the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher into the dark room. He had rarely been in Snape’s office – that honour was usually reserved for rule-breakers – and he noticed with distaste the questionable jars that lined the walls, which he vaguely remembered from last time. He looked at Snape, and wondered how much he knew. Surely he hadn’t brought him in here to lecture him about his father? Well, if he did, Draco would be sure to set himself apart from the oaf.
Snape took a breath, and stopped. He seemed to be trying to choose his words carefully. Draco gave an impatient sigh, signalling that he had other, more important, places to be.
“There’s no point acting like that, Draco, I know everything,” Snape said, testily. “Not only do I know why your father was sent to Azkaban, and how he failed the Dark Lord, but also the task you’ve been given. I want to help.”
Draco stared. He tried to process the information. He had had an idea that Snape might know about his father, but how did he know about Draco’s task? Surely the Dark Lord hadn’t confided in him? Unless he didn’t really know. Maybe he had only heard a rumour, and was feigning knowledge in an attempt to get information. There was something about Snape that Draco could never quite trust. It was as though he was never fully telling the truth, that he knew everything about you, and yet hid everything about himself. What if he just wanted to help in order to take credit for Draco’s work? There was no way he would let that happen.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco drawled, in the most bored voice he could muster. “Perhaps father was sent to Azkaban for some misunderstandings, but it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Perhaps not, but the task is undeniably to do with you.”
“Task, what task? I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Draco.” Snape looked him coldly in the eye with a clear, penetrating look that made Draco feel as though he was falling into a black, bottomless pit.
“Of course I don’t know what you mean,” he spat. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t be asking for your help!” He yanked his bag over his shoulder and strode away before Snape could say any more. There was no way Snape was going to steal his glory. He was going to do this alone, and nothing any stupid adult said was going to stop him. He had spent his life looking up to his father, who had seemed the epitome of power and poise, and being spoiled by the adoration of his mother; but it wasn’t until these past few months that he had come to see them for what they really were. They didn’t really care for the cause. All they cared about was winning. They were cowards, and he was going to prove how much better he could be. He was going to succeed, it would be him alone who was rewarded, and there was nothing that would stop him.