The Bad Guy
Chapter 8: The Bad Guy
A haggard and worn man stood in the doorway of the Great Hall, leaning on his long, gnarled staff. His big, black traveling cloak was wrapped around him snugly to keep the storm at bay.
Lighting flashed over the ceiling, illuminating the newcomer’s severely scarred face. His features and old wounds were carved so deeply into his skin, it was as though he was made of wood. He even had a large chunk of his nose missing. Every head in the Great Hall was turned, watching as he shook out his grizzly mane of dark gray hair and walked up to join the head table.
With every other step, a clunk echoed dully through the Hall. When he finally reached the head table, he did an about face and limped awkwardly to Dumbledore’s side. The man’s overall appearance was grotesque to be sure, but what was most disturbing to Draco was his eyes—one small, dark and beady, the other a great deal larger and nearly as bright a blue as his mother’s eyes.
The blue eye whirled and whizzed in its socket, searching every face and feature in the Great Hall. It never stopped, nor blinked, and moved entirely independently from the other eye.
The man shook Dumbledore’s hand with his own gnarled one, that was even more scarred than his face—if that was even possible. The two shared an odd exchange: Dumbledore inquiring about something, and the man shaking his head in return. The Headmaster nodded, gesturing for the man to join the head table in the empty seat on the right of his own.
The stranger shook his hair out once again, and grabbed a sausage from one of the plates in front of him. He sniffed it cautiously before slicing it open with his own knife he’d pulled from his pocket. His smaller, beady eye was focused on his food as he ate, however, the blue whirling one still swirled about in its socket.
“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” Dumbledore said brightly. “Professor Moody.”
Both the Headmaster and Hagrid clapped appreciatively at the announcement, however the rest of the Hall remained still and silent.
“Moody, as in Mad-Eye Moody?” Theo questioned the Slytherins. “He’s the one who rounded up all the Death Eaters after the war, wasn’t he?”
Draco shivered at the thought. If it really was the same man, they’d all be targets this year. Was Dumbledore really that cruel? Draco chanced another look at the mangled and disfigured wizard sitting at the head table. He seemed unconcerned with his piss poor welcome, instead intent on drinking from a hip flask rather than the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him. When he took a swig, Moody’s robes lifted up under the table, revealing the source of the clunking—a wooden leg ending in a clawed foot.
Noticing the stares, Dumbledore cleared his throat, regaining their attention.
“As I was saying, we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”
“You’re JOKING!” One of the Weasley twins said loudly.
That was all it took to bring some life back into the Great Hall. Nearly everyone laughed, even most of the Slytherins.
“I am not joking, Mr. Weasley,” he said, “though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar…”
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat in consternation.
“Er—but maybe this is not the time…no…” Dumbledore said apologetically, “where was I? Ah, yes, the Triwizard Tournament…well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.
“The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities—until that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued.”
The Slytherins all rolled their eyes at that. It was probably some stupid wankers casting well above their skill levels…or they were Potter-style hero types who couldn’t help but jump into situations where they didn’t belong. The majority of the school seemed to have the same opinion as they were all whispering amongst themselves eagerly.
“There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament,” Dumbledore carried on, “none of which has been successful…”
Obviously. Otherwise they would’ve known about it before now.
“…However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.
“The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand galleons personal prize money.”
All the other tables seemed to grow excited at the prospect of winning the thousand galleons, but the Slytherin table just shrugged it off. What was more appealing to them, however, was the eternal glory that would rise if a champion was selected from Slytherin over any other house—especially Gryffindor. Draco could just see Potter’s pathetic face falling when his name was called…
“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts…” Draco scoffed at Dumbledore’s words. No one cared about winning it for Hogwarts! They wanted it for themselves! “…the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only older students who are of age—that is to say, seventeen years or older—will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This—“
Murmurs of outrage crescendoed around the Great Hall. The largest cries came from the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables, who eyed each other warily.
“—is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them the Hogwarts champion.” The Headmaster’s icy blue eyes twinkled as they fixated on the Weasley twins. “I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.
“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”
Chairs scraped across the flagstone floor and goblets banged down on the wooden tables as students of all four houses excitedly stood up, chattering about the Tournament to come. Dumbledore had sat down again at the head table, engaging in conversation with Mad-Eye Moody.
“So there’s got to be a way around this whole age business, right?” Theo asked, rubbing his palms together menacingly.
“Theo, people have died in these tournaments!” Draco tried to implore reason to Theo’s more reckless nature.
“What’s a bit of fun without the risk?” Theo countered.
Blaise chortled, “I, for one, am interested in what he comes up with.”
“So you’ll help?” Theo asked eagerly.
“I don’t think that’s what I said…,” Blaise replied.
Theo gave his lopsided, undeniable grin, “That’s a yes!” He thrust his fist into the air in triumph, and Blaise shook his head, laughing.
“Theo, you sleep through half your classes,” Pansy snorted.
Theo looked a bit put out, “Well yeah, but I still do better than half our year!”
“Who do you think the impartial judge will be?” Greg asked to nobody in particular.
Draco pondered for a moment. It certainly wouldn’t be anyone from the Ministry—any of the three Ministries. It couldn’t really be anyone from England, France, or Bulgaria…or anyone with political ties to those countries…
“I bet Dumbledore just casts a spell that will choose,” Draco finally came to his conclusion outloud, explaining what he had just rambled on in his head about when they all looked at him more than a bit confused.
“Makes sense,” Greg shrugged, “but if Dumbledore’s casting the spell, wouldn’t it be pretty obvious that he wouldn’t allow you to put your name forward?”
“Fair point, Greg,” Draco smirked. “Dumbledore knows exactly how old you are, Theo.”
Theo wouldn’t let them dampen his excitement, however. “I can just Polyjuice into good old Ted!”
“Your father’s not even a student…,” Blaise sighed as though this were obvious…which it was.
“Quit trying to ruin my night!” Theo stamped his foot petulantly. “Play along or go away!”
They all laughed loudly at this as they descended the many stairs to the dungeons. Reaching the bottom, the Slytherins all gathered in front of an empty expanse of stone wall.
“Anyone have the new password?” Warrington, a sixth year Chaser on the Quidditch team called out, irritated at being locked out of the common room already.
“Pureblood! Chocolate frogs! Chicken beaks! Giant squid! Gryffindors eat shit! Merlin’s saggy shorts! Snape’s shampoo!” Theo was calling out over the crowd, earning both glares and amusement—the Slytherins’ reactions were split nearly in half.
“Eternal glory.”
The hall quieted at the voice. The opening in the wall became visible, and the gathered Slytherins quickly pushed into the common room. The door sealed itself shut.
“Mister Nott,” Snape’s oily voice drawled, “did you have any further recommendations for future passwords?”
Theo gulped nervously, then shook his head violently. “N-no, sir.”
“I do believe you’ve set a new record for Slytherin house.” Theo looked terrified up at the Professor, hoping it was something good, but knowing it definitely wasn’t. “You’re nearly tied with Potter and Weasley for the school record…fastest detention upon arriving at school. Tomorrow. After dinner.”
With that, the Potions Professor swept back out of the room with a sneer, his monochromatic black robes billowing behind him.
“Git,” Theo murmured under his breath, but only after the door had sealed itself shut again.
The boys marched their way to their shared dormitory, with Theo groaning on and on about his misfortune. Draco, ignoring his friend’s so-called ‘plight’, climbed into his bed, relaxing in the warmth emanating from their lit fireplace. Theo put up his Ireland paraphernalia from the World Cup, and Blaise had set up his writing desk to pen a letter to his mother letting her know they had arrived safely.
When he had first walked into this room four years ago, Draco couldn’t have been less impressed. The linens were nothing special, and the room was literally in a dungeon. He had little to no privacy in living with the other Slytherin boys from his year, but somehow this felt like home. Not his real home, of course, that would always be the Manor. This was a different home—one where he didn’t have to worry about his father’s whereabouts, or hide the books he read.
He sighed. A different kind of home indeed; one where he saw her everyday.
That night, Draco dreamt of her…among other things. He dreamt they could be at least friends without him constantly mucking it up every few days. He dreamt that he had somehow entered his name for the Triwizard Tournament…and it was somehow called aloud in front of the Great Hall. He dreamt of Potter’s stupid face as it screwed up in disappointment and disgust as Draco was chosen to be the Hogwarts champion. It was so unlike reality he didn’t want to wake up.
…
The morning sun creeped over the horizon, shining a glimmering emerald light through the waters of the Black Lake. It illuminated the Slytherin common room with every facet of the color, giving its usual eerie glow a more precious gem-like appearance; opulence and glamor. It was just the thing to lift the students spirits for the first day of classes.
The Great Hall, however, was not on board with the uplifting scenery as its enchanted ceiling was gloomy with monotonous gray clouds swirling above them. The new course schedules were distributed during breakfast, and Draco took his time scanning the familiar timestable.
“I heard the Weasley twins muttering about ways to magically age themselves to enter the Tournament—think they’d let me join in?” Theo daydreamed hopefully.
Blaise scoffed, “Not a chance, mate, even if you weren’t a Slytherin. You’re the competition!”
Draco ignored the exchange. As much as he let himself dream about the possibility, he would never consider combining forces, let alone approaching the Weasley twins—or any other Weasleys for that matter—
“Draco, how would you do it?” Theo asked expectantly.
“Er—“ He hadn’t really thought too much about it. In his dream, he had just been chosen. Draco shrugged, “not really sure. Maybe an aging potion?”
“Yeah, alright I think that could be a backup,” Theo rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “Still think it needs to be a bit more complex if I’m fooling some kind of judge.”
Draco looked over the schedule. They still had Divination and Herbology with Ravenclaw, and of course Potions and Care of Magical Creatures with Gryffindor. Starting the first morning of the new term with a double dose of Trelawney’s overly pungent incense was not ideal, but maybe he’d be intoxicated by the time he had to see the infamous trio of Gryffindors this afternoon. Although the fresh air outside may ruin it…
“So who d’you think will die this year?” Daphne smirked at Draco knowingly. At least he had something to look forward to. Having Daphne and Tracey as Divination partners made the class much more bearable.
“Probably Potter again—maybe me?” He gulped dramatically, putting on a faux grim stare and loosening his tie before finally breaking into chortles with the other Divination students nearby.
There was a hard tap on his shoulder. He expected to be reprimanded by a professor for causing a disturbance, or maybe Snape was informing him that they would need to secretly continue Slytherin’s Quidditch practice to stay in shape. Turning, his brain froze to a halt.
“Marietta, hi.”
“Oh, hello Draco,” she said as though she hadn’t been the one to interrupt his conversation. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you’ll be in Divination this morning. Cho and I will be as well, so I guess I’ll see you there.” She flapped her ridiculously magically-enhanced eyelashes at him before flouncing off to Cho, who was waiting for her by the large oak doors.
Pansy laughed condescendingly as she pushed away her untouched plate of toast, “What the hell is wrong with that girl?”
“That’s what I’d like to know!” Daphne snarled before realizing how unladylike she was in that moment. Her features smoothed as she retracted her metaphorical claws, and she sipped on her tea instead. Theo slipped a hand around her waist, drawing her closer to him on the bench, which seemed to help placate her for the moment.
The loud screeches overhead signaled the arrival of the morning post. Draco’s eagle owl, Aquila landed on his shoulder, dropping a package of sweets and cakes on the table in front of him. He offered the bird a bite of sausage for payment.
“Oh, Pansy,” he opened the box, offering it to her, “mother sent your favorites!”
Without even looking in at the sweets and pastries, Pansy politely declined, saying she’d get some later.
“If there’s any left, that is…” she elbowed Theo in the ribs as he shoved a second cauldron cake in his mouth.
“Wut!” He said around a full mouth of cake, looking clueless.
Draco plucked off the letter from his mother attached to the lid, ripping it open. He scanned her perfectly angled script.
“Sirius and Remus left.”
Blaise and Theo looked up, worried. “When will they be back?” Theo asked.
“I don’t think they’re coming back…” Draco said quietly. “Mother wrote that they packed their things and said goodbye after their meeting with Dumbledore about—well, you know.” He moved only his eyes toward Crabbe in a signal to keep things under wraps.
Crabbe wasn’t listening, however, he was staring eerily at Astoria as she peppered Millie with a million questions about her class schedule.
Blaise looked thoughtful, “That’s probably for the best, though, right? With all the Death Eater gatherings and them dropping in unannounced…you could hardly expect them to feel like they’d be safe at the Manor.”
“I guess,” Draco conceded begrudgingly. “I just wish they’d said something before they just left. Mother says they’re to move into Grimmauld Place, Sirius’s childhood home.”
“At least we know where they are,” Theo pointed out brightly.
Students were starting to rise from their seats, hurrying to not be late to their first classes of the new year. Draco, Daphne, and Tracey joined Greg and Millie as they all made their way to the North Tower.
The round trapdoor was already open, and the silver ladder extended in anticipation of their arrival. The Divination classroom, which once held twenty small, round tables crammed together, now held closer to twelve. It would seem that several students had dropped the class since last year, and they would now have a much less stuffy environment. That would explain the fifth years joining them as there were only four older Ravenclaws and two older Slytherins.
Professor Trelawney entered, her mismatched bangles clashing together around her wrists as the many shades of violet she wore swished across the stone floor. The last Slytherins stole away the remaining seats near the front.
“My Dear, your aura is unusually burdened. Perhaps, you should take some cleansing breaths,” Professor Trelawney said mistilly as she peered down at Draco through her enormous glasses.
Daphne rolled her eyes, and Draco and Tracey stifled their laughter as the thin woman continued to make her small, odd predictions through the classroom.
A small pink scarf was dropped just barely in Draco’s periphery, and it floated gracefully to the ground at his feet. Leaning over his aqua and teal pouf, Draco picked up the lost object with the intention of returning it to its owner.
“Did someone drop—“ he began as he tipped his head toward the small table of Ravenclaws to his left.
A round of quiet giggles erupted. “See? I told you he was chivalrous,” Marietta’s nasally voice crooned. “My aunt Marietta—I’m named after her, you know, she’s quite a famous writer—says that to test a man’s true affections, one should simply drop a favor to see if he picks it up!”
Draco nearly choked. He’d have let the thing rot on the floor—maybe even squashed it under a muddy shoe—if he’d known it belonged to her.
“Seriously? Does she ever stop?” Daphne furiously whispered.
Marietta and Cho hardly seemed to notice Daphne and Tracey’s presence, and continued on with their nattering. The third Ravenclaw at their table, though, looked incredibly bored—irritated, even, at their lack of focus on the class.
“It’s fine, Daph,” Draco assured her. He turned back to the other girl, “Sorry, I didn’t know it was hers or I’d have left it.”
This earned him the tiniest hint of a smile before she returned to her note taking. Patil. She’s one of the Patil twins. If she was in Ravenclaw, she must be the smart one—a good person to have on his side when his interest for the class fell apart and he had no idea whether they were studying dreams or star charts.
The rest of the morning was mostly uneventful. Marietta dropped her scarf once more, however Draco and the rest of the class ignored her simpering gaze, willing him to retrieve her ‘token’. Draco kept his eyes firmly on Professor Trelawney, and attempted to practice his Occlumency by locking away all the snarky and rude comments he had about her person in general.
She’s trying to smoke us all out in here…what even is that? Patchouli? …and Frankincense? She has to be drugging us. How else does she keep this many students enrolled in her classes?
Lock it away.
But she’s so ridiculous! How many sets of robes and gauze and scarves does she have on right now? It has to be at least half her wardrobe! One…two…three…five…seven, no six—the purple one turns into that other shade of purple…wait, are they all just one big cloth that’s not a consistent color? How many times did she wrap it around her…one…two…three…twelve…a hundred…is this over yet?
Lock it away.
Okay, focus.
Draco jerked out of his thoughts, nearly falling off his pouf when he felt something rub against his ankle. He frantically looked down, pulling his robes aside, to inspect the offending intruder…only to find Marietta’s foot casually tapping against his leg.
He sneered, but she seemed perfectly happy to grin as though they were sharing a secret dalliance in the middle of the classroom. Tracey and Daphne eyed them both warily, wondering if and when he would finally snap back at the stupid witch.
“Touch me again, and I’ll hex you,” he snarled so low only Marietta could hear.
“Can’t wait,” she whispered back, eagerly leaning toward him.
The bell sounded before she could make contact, and he picked up his newly assigned, and overly complicated circular chart, and shot out of the room at break-neck speeds, sliding down the ladder, rather than climbing down. He landed with a light thud and jogged down the spiral staircase, not stopping to see if she was following or not. Even if she was, his long strides were nothing compared to hers, and he put as much space between them as possible.
Draco practically skipped down the sloping lawn, the wet ground squelching beneath his feet. He heard a few other pairs of similar sounding steps echoing behind his own, and turned to find Greg, Millie, Theo, Pansy, and Crabbe closing in on him.
“Where’s the Fiendfire?” Theo jested, cracking Draco’s bubble of anxiety.
“Marietta,” he grumbled, “is a menace.”
Greg grimaced as he puffed to catch his breath, “I thought she was sitting awfully close to you.”
“Yeah. She was.” Draco glared at the landscape in general as the Slytherins made their way toward Hagrid’s small wooden cabin at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Greg looked apologetic. “Any chance you can help me with that birth chart thing? Millie tried to explain how to calculate the angles and which timestable to use for which part of the chart but I’m sunk.
“Yeah,” Draco clapped him on the shoulder, easing both their tension, “find me after dinner and we can look at them then.”
The half-giant was standing outside, holding his large, black boarhound by the collar as it was desperately trying to investigate the contents of the wooden crates at his feet. There was an odd rattling noise and several tiny explosions coming from the boxes, punctuated by the thick stench of rotting fish.
The Slytherins joined the growing crowd of students returning for another year of Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid reached down to open another crate, and Lavender Brown jumped backward in disgust.
Draco leaned over Crabbe’s short, stocky stature to get a look at what lovely creature he’d be subjected to this year…deformed lobsters. They were deformed, shell-less lobsters—slimy and pale, with legs sticking out haphazardly, and headless to boot. At only about six inches long, there were hundreds of the filthy creatures climbing over each other in each of the boxes. The continuously bumped into the walls of the box before flipping over and shooting off the occasional set of sparks with a phut to propel it forwards several inches.
“On’y jus’ hatched,” said Hagrid proudly, “so yeh’ll be able ter raise ‘em yerselves! Thought we’d make a bit of a project of it!”
“And why would we want to raise them?” Draco asked, seriously wanting an answer. The things were hideous, and he certainly had never come across anything so grotesque in any of his reading. He’d definitely have remembered these.
Greg and Crabbe chuckled behind him, obviously agreeing. Pansy was just sneering at the boxes of ugly creatures, and Millie had turned away, her face pale. Hagrid just stared at them, stumped as to why anyone wouldn’twant, well, whatever they were.
“I mean what do they do?” Draco offered as a means of answering for the half-giant. They could certainly be useful if they were a source for potion ingredients, or could cure Dragon Pox, or something—anything. “What is the point of them?”
Hagrid continued to stare, open his mouth as though he might try to answer, then promptly shut it before saying roughly, “Tha’s next lesson, Malfoy. Yer jus’ feedin’ ‘em today. Now you’ll wan’ ter try ‘em on a few diff’rent things—I’ve never had ‘em before, not sure what they’ll go fer—I got ant eggs an’ frog livers an’ a bit o’ grass snake—jus’ try ‘em out with a bit of each.”
The Slytherins were the last to approach the buckets of suggested food for the—whatever they were called.
“How exactly are we supposed to feed them? They don’t have any mouths…,” Pansy snarked, cleaning under her nails instead of helping.
After only about ten minutes, Dean Thomas shouted, “Ouch! It got me!”
Hagrid hurried over nervously to inspect the injury.
“Its end exploded!” the Gryffindor boy said angrily, showing Hagrid his burnt hand.
“Ah, yeah, that can happen when they blast off,” Hagrid said, nodding.
“Eurgh!” Lavender screamed again. “Eurgh, Hagrid, what’s that pointy thing on it?”
“Ah, some of ‘em have got stings,” he answered enthusiastically, and Lavender promptly removed her hand from the box. “I reckon they’re the males…the females’ve got sorta sucker things on their bellies…I think they might be ter suck blood.”
“Well, I can certainly see why we’re trying to keep them alive,” Draco mumbled sarcastically. “Who wouldn’t want pets that can burn, sting, and bite all at once?”
“Just because they’re not very pretty, it doesn’t mean they’re not useful,” Granger snapped back. “Dragon blood’s amazingly magical, but you wouldn’t want a dragon for a pet, would you?”
She turned her back to him again, and Draco smirked. He knew exactly who might want a dragon for a pet…if only he would quit sticking his foot in his mouth every time she was around. He had been significantly more tame today—even giving the oaf a few chances to make up for his egregious choice of subject matter by giving them reasons these things were even worth their time.
The class, luckily, went by quickly and they were able to abandon their new ‘projects’ in favor of lamb chops and potatoes for lunch in the Great Hall. Draco hadn’t taken more than a few bites of his food when he spotted Granger rushing back out the double oak doors.
He contemplated his options. He could follow her and see what was wrong…maybe help even. Or, he could stay put and finish his mouth watering lamb chops. By the time he decided, he almost missed Pansy’s smirk as she silently counted down on her fingers the seconds it took him to get up to chase after the witch. He spared a look only for Crabbe, who thankfully hadn’t noticed anything due to his preoccupation with poor Astoria.
Draco cleared his throat, “I think I’ll be heading to the library.”
“Now? But it’s lunchtime!” Blaise said in mock surprise.
“Now, boys, let’s not stand in the way of Draco’s quest for unending education and boredom!” Pansy cheered.
“Er—okay, bye.” Draco walked quickly out of the Great Hall, trying to catch up with the bushy head of curls ahead of him.
He found her in the library of all places.
“Granger,” he nodded as he walked past her usual table, perusing the nearby shelves.
She ignored him.
“So,” he tried again, “what are you working on so early in the term? It’s only the first day, afterall.”
“Shove off, Malfoy.”
He steeled himself against her disdain. He knew she wouldn’t want to talk to him, but he had to at least try. She was a magnet pulling him in, and eventually he would be sucked back into her magnetic field. He didn’t have a choice, really.
“C’mon, Granger. I didn’t have anything to do with it, I swear.” He pleaded to her, “I wrote to you the second I found out what was happening. I waited in the damn bushes, looking for you for Merlin’s sake!”
This caught her attention.
“Please.”
Her gaze softened just a fraction, mistrust still strongly evident. “Was your father one of them?”
He squared his shoulders, ready for the blow, “Yes.”
Her jaw dropped. “You just openly admit that?! To me?” She shrieked, earning them a deadly glare from Madam Pince, fresh off the summer holiday.
“What did you want me to do, Granger? He’s my father, but I’m not him.” Draco said, his tone repentant.
She sighed softly, “I know you’re not, but I—well, I don’t know what to think.”
“Must be scary for you.”
“I never knew I’d be so persecuted in a world I thought I’d finally belong in,” she said sadly, the pain written clearly across her worried brow.
“Whoah, that’s pretty heavy. I just meant the not knowing what to think part, Granger,” he said lightly. “I know you can take care of yourself—you’ve always got that mean right hook to fall back on.” He winked as he rubbed the bridge of his nose for effect.
She laughed. She actually laughed. It was the most beautiful sound he’d heard all summer, and he had been the one to bring it about.
“You have to stop, you know,” she said once she’d collected herself after another warning from the stern librarian.
“Stop what?”
“Being nice—to me, to-to Hagrid,” she blushed at the admission.
Draco grinned triumphantly. “You know as well as I do, Granger, that those—“
“Blast-Ended Skrewts,” she supplied.
Draco’s mouth dropped, flabbergasted. “Skrewts?That’s what he came up with? You know perfectly well he bred those things illegally and they’re downright dangerous! What happens when each one is about six feet long? They’ll blow up the school!”
“I know,” she sighed. “You’re right, but Hagrid’s so proud of them.”
“You can't be serious. You’re looking past how utterly dangerous and stupid they are so you won’t hurt the giant’s feelings?” Draco scoffed. “They explode!”
“I know!” she whispered back irritably. “Just lay off it, will you?”
He shook his head, but dropped the subject. “Why do I have to stop being so nice to you?”
She paused, choosing her words carefully, “I think you know why, Malfoy, you’ll always side with your family, and I can’t fault you for that. But your dad is a Death Eater who will damn well kill me just for being a Muggleborn. You made that perfectly clear that night.”
“Then I hope,” he said quietly, “that I also made it perfectly clear your safety is incredibly important to me.”
“You’ll have to choose a side eventually,” she stated matter-of-factly, as though she’d seen the exact moment in the future through one of Trelawney’s crystal balls. “I’m not foolish enough to assume which one it will be, but it’ll be easier if you just stay the bad guy.”
Betrayal. Anger. He had tried to warn her—to save her life. Even Weaselbee saw it that night. Granger was being hunted. And now she wanted to go back to hating him? For what? Some decision she’s already decided he would make. How could she possibly think he’d side with anyone who wanted her dead—even if it was his own father.
“Easier for who, exactly? You don’t know anything about me, Granger, but fine. If you want me to be the villain, then I’ll be the villain.”