Evil Planning & Plotting
Friday, July 31st, 1992
People can (and probably will) learn a lot of things about Draco Malfoy fairly quickly upon meeting him. For one, he had a very high opinion of himself, because he was very prideful, and came from a prideful family. Why shouldn’t he display the fact that he was a Malfoy for the world to know? He was proud of it!
For two, all prideful people, usually, like attention, so he was not one to like getting ignored.
And three, despite his upbringing, and despite his environment, he was not a bigot nor a prat (maybe sometimes) but kind enough to the point that he had quite the circle of friends who would most likely be cursed upon stepping foot on his premises. Oh, and he was a Gryffindor, which in his twelve year old world, meant quite a lot to one’s whole personality and ego.
Combine these into one and you get a very grumpy preteen in the summer, very grumpy indeed.
Almost immediately, or at least sooner than he felt comfortable admitting, Draco had penned his best friend, Harry Potter, and asked him how his summer was going. But no matter how many letters he sent from how many various owls in the Malfoy Family Owlery, he couldn’t get a single in return signed ‘Mr. Harry Potter.’ Not one.
He had plenty of notes and postcards from Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, his other closest friends, and Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson, his childhood friends (Theodore Nott was on that list too, but he never liked writing, only reading), but could Harry bother to give him the time of day? Of course not! He was too famous, wasn’t he?
Draco hadn’t thought that at first, for he’d thrown Harry a bone as he was living with Muggles, but several invitations to his house later and not even a slip of parchment in response? This was simply getting ridiculous.
“I mean honestly,” Draco moaned to his favorite house-elf for this sort of thing (venting), Dobby, as he flopped down on his four poster, “It’s like I didn’t even put myself in a dozen life threatening situations for him last year! What could he possibly be doing with a bunch of Muggles?” He turned over, frowning at Dobby, who was perched on an armchair, listening intently as he’d told him to. “What do Muggles even do?”
Dobby blinked, looking confused and Draco batted a hand. “Never mind, of course you wouldn’t know. He laid flat on his back to examine his ceiling, sighing.
As soon as he’d come home, he’d ordered Dobby and one other house-elf, Pip, to redecorate it to fit a more Gryffindor theme, and his father had nearly gagged the first time he’d stepped in, instead swallowing hard and saying what he had to in a rush then turning on his heel and striding out.
A couple times Draco had heard his parents voices arguing about all the changes he’d made - how he got grumpy every time they brought up pureblood events or tea with his father’s friends, and, of course, the bedroom, but he was in such bad spirits already without a word from Harry this hardly phased him. Instead, he would drown them out by turning on his Wizarding Wireless and listening to his favorite station while plowing through his homework and stripping down to his thinnest silk tunic in the sweltering heat.
Currently, however, he didn’t feel like doing any of that, as today was Harry’s birthday, and if any day he’d write him back, it would be today with a thank you card for the birthday cake he’d meticulously baked him.
Or, rather, Dobby had while Draco paced back and forth ordering him to make sure it was perfect.
“Dobby wonders if Master Malfoy sir should get to supper. Master Malfoy’s parents will be very unhappy if he doesn’t, sir.”
Draco turned back around to frown at him. “I’m not going anywhere until I get a letter back saying that cake was the best he’d ever -”
A knock sounded at the door and Draco groaned, hopping off the bed and pulling it open, pushing past Pip who stood there, looking frightened.
After a dinner full of boring conversation about his father’s work life, Draco was finally allowed to run back up to his room.
“Seen anything yet, Dobby?” He called, swinging the door open only to find the room empty, the house-elf nowhere in sight.
“Dad!” He hollered and pounded back down the stairs, thinking he’d better tell him Dobby wasn’t responding to his summons, but slowed to a stop when he heard the familiar tenseness in his parents voices, instead sinking to his knees and grabbing the railing and listening closely.
“- don’t like what you’ve been discussing.”
“And how exactly would you know what we are discussing, Cissa?”
Oh this was definitely not about him…
“I’m not daft, Lucius! I know what that thing is. I know why he gave it to you -”
“This has nothing to do with him -”
“Then what does it have to do with, because it’s certainly not just Arthur Weasley.” A pause, then, more sincerely, “I thought we’d agreed to put all that behind us…”
“But the rumors, Narcissa, if they’re true -”
“Then what? Lucius you have a son now. It’s not the same as it was then.”
“It’s not so simple. If he truly is back… Cissa this isn’t something you can just walk away from, and I need him to know we’re still on his side, or something far worse could happen to me - to us.”
Draco rose to his feet and, worrying his bottom lip, hurried back up the stairs. He’d heard enough. Uselessly, he tried to call for Dobby again but of course it didn’t work, so he instead took a long, relaxing bubble bath, and when he was ready for bed his parents were back to normal, as if the conversation never happened. But it had, and Draco had heard it. Now he just had to make sense of it…
-*-*-*-
Saturday, August 1st
On a well rested mind Draco couldn’t deny they’d most certainly been talking about his father’s past as a Death Eater, and something he had to do soon to prove why he was still on Voldemort’s side now that he knew how likely it was that he could return. This explained the gradual increase in meetings he was having with his old Death Eater friends, like the unexpected one he sprung on Draco the next morning, dragging him along to Armand Nott’s mansion and leaving Draco outside in the heat with the boys.
“Cricket?” he asked, unimpressed, as Theo tossed him a bat.
“Be grateful, Draco,” Vince said, nudging him in the ribs, “He finally found something to do other than read.”
“I bet ten galleons you read about it in a book,” Greg said and Theo glared at them.
“Shut up,” he muttered.
Cricket turned out to be a Muggle game, hence why they were playing it in the thickest bushes of the garden, so their parents wouldn’t see. Still, Draco half wished they would so that they could hop on brooms for some flying instead. The breeze would certainly cool him if only slightly.
After a third win on Greg’s part and Theo looking ready to blow his top he was being schooled in a sport he suggested Draco finally threw in the towel, however, dropping his bat and making up the excuse he needed the restroom.
He intended to get a drink in the kitchens, but Nott didn’t have nearly as many house-elves around to ask for said drink or directions, as he had been to his house the least, and instead he was soon lost, wondering the hall until he passed right by and office and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a yell.
“Calm yourself, Yaxley!”
“What in Merlin’s name…?” Yaxley?! Draco thought it was just Vince, Greg, and Theo’s dad’s, and his own, of course. What was Corban Yaxley doing here?
Glancing up and down the hall, and remembering what he’d overheard the previous night, Draco crept forwards and pressed an ear carefully to the door.
“Who do you think you are?” Came the familiar, smooth voice of the Ministry man that was Corban Yaxley. Draco shivered. He was always his least favorite. “Even if the Dark Lord is returning, what makes you so sure you’ll be on his good side. We’re all going to be punished for not staying loyal.”
“Who is saying we haven’t stayed loyal?”said his father’s voice and Draco shuffled uncomfortably. “We’ve never swayed from the Dark Lord’s way, and this - this will show him that. Don’t you want him to see a Hogwarts pure and untampered with when he returns? It would be a statement, a symbol -”
“A death wish,” said Ezra Crabbe, and Draco heard his father sigh, the sigh that always meant he was deep, deeply disappointed in you.
“Ezra, do you think I called you all here if we had nothing to discuss?”
“Well I’ve heard a lot of nothing so far,” a shifting of cushions, someone shifting in a chair, “just a wild dream.”
“Maybe so, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Surely, there’s nothing we can do that the Ministry won’t notice,”
Some mumbled their agreement.
“Nothing that we can’t guarantee we’ll fail. So, if we can’t move forward, why shouldn’t we move back?”
More shifting of cushions and many exclamations at the same time. Draco heard the slap of parchment. His father had just dropped something on the desk.
“That’s mad -”
“Why? It worked the first time, didn’t it?” His father said, “Why shouldn’t it now. We smuggle it in, we can even plant it all on the same man. Fudge will believe me, I have all of the Governors on my sides. Do you follow me?”
“No,” said Crabbe. “I mean, how are you even going to open it?”
“That’s… private.”
A good deal of groans erupted in the room.
“Alright, well, Lucius, what I see is that even if the Dark Lord is back, he’s weak enough to be taken down by a firstie. Personally, I’d like no part in this.”
“And that’s your decision. But when he comes knocking on your door saying you’re a disloyal traitor, Macnair… Don’t owl me. As for the rest of you, look alive, and don’t forget; it’s not over yet.”
Gaius Goyle chuckled lowly. “Malfoy… you are one evil man.”
Draco returned to his friends not a bit refreshed, literally or metaphorically, or amused by Theo, who now looked red as a tomato, or Greg, declaring, “I won again, Draco!”
In fact, he stayed deathly silent until he and his father had flooed home, when he ran up to his bedroom in a hurry, shutting the door and jumping on the bed, hugging his knees to his chest and shivering with worry.
His hand reached for his drawer, where parchment and ink lay, after a moment, but he hesitated. He wanted to write to Harry, he really did, but he also had the sinking suspicion he’d hate him if he did. Think badly, terribly, if he knew the truth, because this would entail confessing the truth; that his father had been an all out, second-in-command to Voldemort Death Eater, and now was convinced he was back and wanted nothing more than to become that man again. And Harry was just such a paragon of good…
There was no way he’d ever look at him the same way.
So, once again, Draco laid down for a sleepless night, wondering if in the morning he’d be able to look at his father the same way again too.
-*-*-*-
Wednesday, August 19th
Draco looked down at his Hogwarts supply list, smiling to himself. He’d been quite pleased indeed to unseal his letter and see Gilderoy Lockhart’s full collection of novels, and not because he already owned them all and would therefore not have to buy them, but because he owned them all and loved them.
Who wouldn’t love the thrilling tales of the dashing wizard hero conquering a troll with a smile? Defeating a ghoul cleverly with a flick of his perfect golden hair? He was brilliant, and if one of his Professors (probably the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher) agreed with that sentiment, then Draco suspected they’d be good friends.
Not only that, but the thrill of getting to take his whole collection to Hogwarts, and also the fact that Draco always loved shopping and the trip to Diagon Alley would be just around the corner, was enough to wrench him out of his weeks long reverie of locking himself in his room and taking a piece of parchment to write down all he remembered his father saying to his wife and friends and any other theories or thoughts he had on what he may be planning this year.
Which wasn’t a lot. He knew it had to do with getting firmly onto Voldemort’s side, but it probably wasn’t any way of trying to bring him back like the Philosopher’s Stone. It had also happened in the past, if Draco was interpreting what his father had said correctly. But this didn’t take him far at all, only as far as the Manor library, where not a single bit of research on past Dark Wizards could lead him to the sort of plot his father would be able to replicate.
The part about framing the same man was sticking to him the most - and his window, stuck at the center of the little theory board he’d crafted, easy enough to hide behind curtains whenever his parents entered his room - because it meant the crime they were replicating would’ve had to be recent enough to get whoever was blamed then blamed now, but the age range of his Professors could span from thirty to a hundred and thirty. Counting Binns, maybe centuries beyond that.
Thus Draco was glad to be swept away from thoughts that seemed to be more likely to drive him insane, and instead journey into Diagon Alley and hopefully meet with his friends and, more importantly, Harry, whom he was all too ready to demand answers from.
However, he and his father had barely caught a glimpse of the brilliant street, and they were turning their course for the much darker, much less appealing, Knockturn Alley.
“I don’t remember discussing Knockturn at breakfast, Father,” Draco said, hurrying up beside him and trying to keep his usual casual drawl, though he kept glancing at that look in his father’s eyes suspiciously.
“It wasn’t something that needed discussing, Draco,” his father said briskly. His walk was brisk too, cane, clacking on the stone. Clearly, this was a secretive business, Draco recognized the mannerisms, but also a lot more urgent than he’d like you to believe.
As he strode wide to keep with his father’s pace, Draco felt a sudden tug on his cloak and stopped short, looking down. Two pairs of watery, bulbous eyes were blinking up at him in sallow, skin and bone faces. A girl and boy maybe two or three years younger than him, holding out their cupped hands desperately.
“Please, sir,” said the boy, “We’re starving.”
“I -” Draco felt caught, not just because the girl still held onto one of his nicest traveling cloaks, but because she looked remarkably like Granger. “I -”
“Draco!” He whipped around, tugging the cloak out of her grip to see his father had stopped to glare at the children. “What have I told you about not speaking to the homeless?” He strode back and waved his cane at the kids, shooing them away, and they fell and scrambled into a dark alley out of sight. “Come along.”
They were off again, Draco making sure to keep much closer to his father this time, but not able to get the image of the little girl’s face out of his mind, and just how similar to Hermione she had looked, even as his father chided him.
“There’s simply no use for that kind in our world. I don’t even understand the use of the term ‘Squib.’ They’re just Muggles, Draco, and don’t belong in our world. Personally, I think I’ll put a word in to the Minister for a clearing of the streets…”
His voice was drowned out in Draco’s ears as all he could think about was Hagrid’s speech to him last year about respecting all magical kind, and what that meant for Squibs. They weren’t magical, so his father was right in a way… Or was he? If they had magical lineage, could they still be considered pureblood?
None of this made any sense and, by the time he’d stepped into Borgin & Burkes, he had a headache.
For all that he hated about Knockturn Alley, visits always seemed worth it to see what Mr. Borgin was displaying. Ever since he could remember Draco had been fascinated by the Dark artifacts sitting behind cases or on display, and even with his mind so full of doubts to his father’s intentions with the Dark Arts this year, that opinion didn’t change. Immediately, he spotted a shiny glass eye and smiled, reaching a hand out in curiosity -
“Touch nothing, Draco,” said his father from behind and he rolled his eyes, lowering his hand and strolling down the first line of objects.
“I thought you were going to buy me a present,” he said, because that was something they had discussed at breakfast.
“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” said his father, stopping before the front counter and drumming his fingers idly. Draco scowled at him.
“Are you sure? Or are you just going to update the set you gave the Slytherins? Be sure to send it to me this time, not Harry Potter…” He shook his head, turning to examine a shelf of artifacts so as not to see his father’s look of disapproval.
“And I’ve told you many times I regret making that decision. I find it strange, Draco, you seem to be unable to decide your opinions on the Potter boy.”
Now Draco really tried to avoid his eyes as he bent down to eye a shelf lined with skulls.
“Well, you know, I have to keep up appearances and all. It would look suspicious if I didn’t like him. Everybody else does, he’s so famous and all, right Dad?” He turned to meet his father’s eyes as he raised his chin as if to sniff out a lie from him. After a moment he looked back beyond the counter.
“Right… Ah, Mr. Borgin.”
Mr. Borgin had finally appeared and Draco stood to nod to him when he bowed and addressed him, before sighing and turning back to the artifacts, no interest in listening to the shopkeeper butter his father up.
He didn’t mind interrupting said discussion one bit when he turned his sights on a withered looking hand sitting on a cushion, which looked quite intriguing indeed.
“Can I have that?” he said, turning to look at them while pointing at the hand.
“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin in an oily voice, coming around the counter to stand before him, leaving Draco’s father to scowl. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.”
Daco grinned. It did sound very interesting indeed.
“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” and his smile fell.
“No offense, sir, no offense meant -” Borgin said quickly.
“Though if his grades don’t pick up, that may indeed be all he is fit for -”
“It’s not my fault,” Draco said, saying the same thing he had for months since his father had received his marks and been informed by him that his friend Hermione was top in the year. “The teachers all have favorites, that Hermione Granger -”
“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam,” his father snapped and he scowled, cheeks burning.
“She’s my friend,” he said persistently, driving in the same sentiment he had all summer. “I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Luckily, Borgin drove the attention back to the business at hand, leaving Draco to sulk along the shop. He paused at a coil of hangman’s rope, then read, interested, the plaque propped next to quite a brilliant jeweled necklace kept behind a glass case, which read; Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed - Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date.
He then turned and eyes a large, magnificent black cabinet directly across from him. Tilting his head, he began to step forward, reaching for the handle. He swore he saw something through a crack, maybe a flicker of green when -
“Done,” said his father, but at the same time he swore he heard a voice speak from the cabinet. “Come, Draco -”
“But -” He gestured uselessly to the cabinet but his father gave him a very pointed look and he sulked out. Glancing back at the cabinet only once, but it only looked plain and ordinary.
-*-*-*-
They made a short stop at Gringotts after to get the money they needed to buy Draco’s brand new broom, as promised, and Draco watched curiously as his father removed a tightly wrapped square parcel from a box in the depths of the vault, hoping it was an early Yule present, though it was probably a gift for his mother, whose birthday was nearing.
Following Gringotts Draco finally could do what he most looked forward to, practically skipping his way to Flourish & Blotts in anticipation of seeing the famed Gilderoy Lockhart and getting a signed copy of Magical Me.
When he’d asked, last week, to come to Diagon Alley on this day to see him, having received letters from Weasley and Hermione that they’d be there too, Draco had been pleasantly surprised to find his father quite reasonable, so it was that for this particular part of their journey he didn’t bother staying upset with him in any way. How could he? He was about to see his idol, his icon, Gilderoy Lockhart.
Anyone would be beside themselves with glee, and anyone who wasn’t was just kidding themselves, in Draco’s opinion.
Still nearly skipping, Draco pushed through the crowd of middle-aged women into the shop, where a long line wound right to the back. Immediately, all the pep in his step melted at the sight of the line.
“I’ll wait,” his father sighed, gesturing to the bookshelves above. “Go get your books.”
Singular book, actually. Within minutes Draco had found and purchased the Standard Book of Spells: Grade 2, and leant over the railing of the upper floor of the shop, watching, wide eyed with glee, Gilderoy Lockhart’s brilliant blonde head turn this way and that, signature peacock quill dancing across various books.
He had to wait for a good twenty minutes, after which he sat himself in an armchair and opened up his new book, beginning to flip through it, before his father returned, ascending the stairs, and dropped a bright, shiny, and new copy of Magical Me on his lap.
“Right on time…” He whispered and Draco, running his hand over the cover, where Gilderoy Lockhart posed, winking at him, looked up in surprise to see he hadn’t been speaking to him, rather himself, looking down at the floor below. Curiously, Draco stuffed both books into his satchel and leaned over the railing to see a very familiar family of redheads pouring into the shop, joined by Hermione, a dark skinned couple who looked very out of place that had to be her parents, and, what do you know, Harry Potter.
Draco felt a strange lurch in his stomach as he eyes found the scruffy head of hair, slightly covered in soot, and looking quite bedraggled indeed, not at all as famous as he should be. Despite all his anger at him, he couldn’t help feeling quite happy to see him well. A part of him, with all the shifty things his father had been up to lately, had worried that he wasn’t writing because he couldn’t.
Within minutes that relief was dismissed however, because clearly he could write and still chose not to.
This was not helped in the slightest by Lockhart suddenly looking up, spotting Harry, and proclaiming, “It can’t be Harry Potter?”
Draco scowled as all of the crowd turned to gawk and whisper and Lockhart grabbed Harry, pulling him forward for all to more easily see. Look at him! He probably thought he was far too important to write back to his friends, judging by how in Weasley and Hermione’s letters he wasn’t penning them either. Famous Harry Potter…
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lockhart declared following a good deal of posing and camera flashes. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time! When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, only wanting to buy my autobiography - which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge -” The crowd erupted in applause and Draco clapped his hands dryly, approving of Lockhart’s charity but rolling his eyes at Harry’s fame.
“He had no idea,” he continued, “that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”
Draco straightened at that, clapping genuinely as his heart whooped. He’d be taught by the real Gilderoy Lockhart! He’d see him every day, be instructed, maybe even learn some of his signature tricks that saved him from so many tight spots in his books! It was enough to make him not mind one bit as Harry returned to the Weasleys with a free set of all seven Lockhart novels, instead brushing past his father and dashing down the steps to meet them.
“Famous Harry Potter…” He drawled, smirking smartly at him, standing beside a small girl who had to be Weasley’s sister - Weaslette. He ignored her, striding straight up to the boy in question. The only one he had words for. “Can’t even go into a bookshop without making the front page, can you?”
Harry lowered his gaze to his shoes. “Well I… I can’t help it -”
“But I bet you can help writing to your friends,” Draco folded his arms, furrowing his brow at him, “Seriously, Harry, couldn’t bother with a word? Not even a thank you? That cake was hard to bake.” He purposefully didn’t include the fact that he hadn’t baked it; he didn’t need to know that part.
“I did write!” Harry exclaimed, looking up and looking, quite upset with the situation he’d found himself in indeed. He clearly wasn’t lying. “But I never got any of your letters, and you never got mine. A house-elf was intercepting them.”
“A house-elf?” Draco asked, furrowing his brow, completely bewildered by that answer. “But… you live with Muggles -”
“Exactly!” Harry gestured as Hermione and Weasley emerged from the crowd, appearing on either side of him. “Said his name was ‘Dobby’ -”
“Dobby?!” Draco exclaimed, jaw dropping to the floor, and his friends only had time to look confused at him knowing the name before the Weasley matriarch was pushing through to his party, the twins on either side of him.
“What are you doing, you four? It’s too crowded in here, let’s go outside.”
“Well, well, well - Arthur Weasley.” Draco flinched slightly at the sudden hand on his shoulder but relaxed when he looked up to see it was only his father, sneering at Weasley’s father. At least he could shrug this off as normal behavior for him.
“Lucius.” Mr. Weasley nodded coldly.
“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said his father, “All those raids… I hope they’re paying you overtime?”
He reached in Weaslette’s cauldron to pick up a battered up copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, leaving Draco to wince and avoid his friend’s eyes. No doubt they’d beat him down for his father’s actions, as he could already see this was about to get a lot worse.
“Obviously not,” His father said, sneer worsening. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”
Mr. Weasley flushed. “We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy,” he said, and Draco bit his lip, looking cautiously between his father and Weasley’s. It was true this family seemed to have a strange closeness to Muggles but surely that didn’t disgrace their entire name, did it? More and more Draco felt he knew less and less about the world he grew up in as the days went by.
His father’s eyes slowly shifted to Hermione’s parents, who were watching the scene unfold from the sidelines. Now Draco could firmly decide his father’s next words were out of bounds, as the idea of Mr. Weasley having to explain to them why they were so hated as Muggles… It just left a sour taste in his mouth.
“The company you keep, Weasley…” his father drawled, not caring one bit for the Grangers’ hearts, “and I thought your family could sink no lower -”
Draco let out a yelp of shock and ducked to the side as, out of nowhere, Weasley’s dad lunged at his and within seconds the pair of them had toppled below falling spellbooks, wrestling like a pair of bloody firsties.
“Get him, Dad!” one of the twins yelled and the Weasley mother shrieked, shouting out, “No, Arthur, no!” and attempting to reach the brawling men around the crowd that was gasping and shouting, stampeding backwards. Draco himself had to dive many times to avoid getting knocked over by falling books or entire shelves as he watched his father reel back punches like a Muggle he so hated.
“Gentlemen, please - please!” cried a man bobbing nervously around Lockhart, who had stood upon his own chair to see the raucous and now looked quite alarmed. Draco went very red in the face. He wasn’t even in school yet and his father had embarrassed him in front of his idol and now teacher!
“Father! Dad!” Draco yelled fruitlessly as his father was thrown backwards by the Encyclopedia of Toadstools Mr. Weasley picked up to jab into his eye, stepping forward to swing his cane at him, the snake head cutting across his face.
“Break it up, there, gents, break it up -” Draco was pleasantly surprised to find himself relieved when Hagrid, gamekeeper of Hogwarts, boomed his voice over all the chaos, wading through the rain of falling books and the sea they had formed on the ground and picking up the angry father’s like dolls and pulling them apart.
Mr. Weasley was sporting a cut lip, dripping blood on his robes, while thankfully his father would only have a black eye. Not something his mother would be able to miss, however.
He thrust Weaslette’s book back at her with a certain malice, saying, “Here, girl - take your book - it’s the best your father can give you -” then ripped himself from Hagrid’s grip and beckoned to his son. Draco cast one last look to his friends, trying to show how sorry and embarrassed he felt with his eyes, before following.
“Are you al -”
“You are not to discuss this with your mother, Draco,” his father said shortly. He was squinting through his good eye.
“Dad, she’s gonna know -”
“Then you’re mother and I will have a conversation but it will be between us, understand?” He turned to eye him seriously and, cornered under his gaze, Draco had to relinquish a sigh, nodding.
“Yes, Father…”
-*-*-*-
So chaotic was the trip to Diagon Alley, Draco didn’t recall what Harry had told him shortly before Mr. Weasley had arrived and all hell broke loose until he was hiding away from the fiery storm that was Narcissa Malfoy (“‘DISGRACE TO THE NAME OF WIZARD?!’ LUCIUS ABRAXAS MALFOY EVEN OUR SON WOULDN’T ACT SO CHILDISH!”) and escaping to his room to find Dobby making his bed.
“Dobby!” He exclaimed, as if he was back in Flourish & Blotts and Harry had just told him.
“Y-yes Master Malfoy, sir?” His House-elf squeaked, and for a moment Draco just stared at him. With his wide bulbous eyes he made for a very difficult staring contest opponent, but the staring was more out of sheer shock.
“Dobby…” He repeated after thirty seconds, slowly walking to his bed and sitting himself down on it, crossing his legs and slumping as he continued to consider him. “Dobby…”
His house-elf had never appeared more confused. “W-What is it Master Malfoy be needing done, sir? Is there not enough pillows, sir? Is it the wrong colors, sir?”
“What? Oh, the bed? No, no, no…” Draco waved a hand. “Nothing like that,” he patted the bed. “Have a seat.”
It didn’t occur to him until his House-elf was staring at him, gobsmacked as he obediently climbed onto the four-poster that this was strangely polite, but Draco told himself he was only doing it to butter him up to get whatever truth he had to offer out. (Right?)
“Dobby, I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I’d like you to answer each honestly. Can you do that for me?” He continued to speak as calmly as possible so as not to alarm him and the little elf nodded, large, bat-like ears flapping. “Did you, or did you not, prevent all my letters to Harry Potter from reaching him?”
Somehow, Dobby’s eyes got wider, and, though his mouth was closed, he emitted a high pitched squeak.
“Yes!” He gasped and pressed a hand to his mouth. Draco scowled. How dare he?
“But Master Malfoy mustn’t punish Dobby, sir!” Dobby suddenly gasped, and looked like he was regretting every word that flew out of his mouth, speaking fast so as to get the words out before hesitating. “Dobby is only trying to save Harry Potter, sir!”
“Save him?” Draco asked, raising one eyebrow. “Why would he need saving?”
“There is a plot, Master Malfoy, to make bad things happen at Hogwarts. Harry Potter isn’t safe, sir.”
Draco frowned, leaning back in his pillows and looking over at his window, where he could just see small pieces of parchment sticking out behind the curtains.
“A plot?” He flicked his eyes back to Dobby, who was stretching out a hand to his nightstand, and probably the Lumos activated lamp that sat there. Draco grabbed his hand before he could reach it, making him lock eyes with him so he could ask his next question and make sure he saw his reaction. “And my father, is he the one behind it?”
“N-not entirely…” Dobby squeaked, then lunged forward for the lamp and lifted it to smash upon his head.
Draco hopped off the bed, leaving him to it, and walked over to the window, pushing back the curtains and frowning at all the notes he’d written there.
Somehow, someway, his father was reenacting a plot that happened sometime ago, planned to frame the same man that was framed prior, who still worked at the school, and was somehow working with the perpetrator from before.
Groaning, he ran a hand down his face. None of it made any sense, but one thing he did know for certain was there was no way he was writing a letter to Harry explaining all Dobby had told him now.
“Dobby,” he turned around to find the house-elf weeping in his hands, the lamp dropped to the floor. He slowly raised his head, eyes watery with tears. “You have to promise me you won’t tell Harry Father’s behind this,” he slowly walked over and knelt before him, placing a hand on one of his tiny shoulders and trying to say, as desperate and serious as possible, to really enforce how important an order this was, “and don’t let him get hurt.”
“Dobby never planned to, sir,” Dobby shook his head furiously, and Draco sighed.
“Well, at least I have you to talk to,” he shrugged and Dobby’s eyes widened and he turned and hopped onto the usual armchair, hands crossed primly on his lap.
“Does Master Malfoy need to ‘vent’ to Dobby, sir?”
Draco smiled and shook his head. “No, not now, Dobby; Master Malfoy needs to sleep.”