Frogspawn
Draco Malfoy was having a particularly pleasant fall day. It was just starting to get nippy out, and the tips of the leaves were beginning to show their colors. Summer giving way to fall—the inevitability of the descent into the colder months—never failed to put him at ease. A heady distillation of an old nostalgia. It meant that he had a whole new school year stretching out before him, out in the world and on his own. Able to make more decisions about what he did. And who he was.
Out beyond the meandering snake-line of distant railroad tracks, past the smoothly dimpled hillocks and waving fields of grass… Hogwarts was waiting for him, as it always was. What would he conquer this year? What new glory could he bring to the Malfoy name? He could practically feel the wind whistling through his hair, out on the Quiddich pitch already. Soaring above the castle turrets, the ancient sloping mountains, the Great Lake…
“Dearest, your father was talking to you.”
A soft yet stern voice shook him out of his momentary reverie.
“Where were you, Draco?” His father asked. He wasn’t upset—his tone suggested curiosity more than anything.
“Nowhere, Father. I was… Well, I was thinking of how I shall miss you and Mother.”
“We raised a dutiful son, did we not Narcissa?” Lucius Malfoy replied, with a smile that did not reach his steely eyes. It was the appropriate answer, a tit-for-tat pleasantry that echoed the hollowness of his son’s response.
“Of course we did. Prefect on his way to Head Boy. Now he just needs to find himself a girlfriend.” And of course, Narcissa Malfoy played along.
Draco blushed a tad at that but did not reply.
“That Daphne Greengrass you went to the Yule Ball with, do you still keep up?”
Draco stiffened at the mention of the Yule Ball. It brought up memories of the Triwizard Tournament, how unlucky it had been to have fallen in his Fifth Year, when he hadn’t been old enough to enter. Not to mention that the Hogwarts champion had died during the competition. Draco was sure he would not only have survived the Tournament, but would have won it.
It had also made him wonder about Durmstrang as a school. He had known for years that his father had wanted to send him there, and had felt it would have been a better fit for a young man of his esteemed pedigree. Yet it was his mother who had kept him close to home. On the one hand he was both frustrated and resentful toward her for that, and in equal measure both guilty and thankful for it.
“We, uh… We’ve owled a bit since. Nothing substantial.”
“Now, now, my pet,” Lucius said to his wife. “Let the boy figure this out for himself. He’s got plenty of time. A young buck like him in his prime… If he’s anything like me, he will leave a battlefield of broken hearts behind him.” He smirked wryly.
The train blew two short blasts on its whistle, a signal that in about five minutes it would be departing. Lucius raised his wand and assisted Draco in loading his packages and parcels onto the train in short order.
“A minute, Narcissa,” he said gently, and pulled his son aside.
“I shall expect you to run your course choices by me when they become available for this term. I am hearing that there may be a rather unique course that you should take on all accounts.”
Draco nodded.
“I will also expect you to make time for the Society when I call upon you.”
Draco set his jaw. He’d known this was coming. Joining the Slug Club last year had been one thing—a fine way to make connections and build influence. But he’d felt the experience rather unimpressive; Slughorn himself was an obvious flatterer and lacked true sophistication or charm. In short, it had been a dull bore, something Draco felt was beneath him. The Society… This was different. He was being given an opportunity to sit in on the inner workings of the true elite of the Wizarding world.
“Of… of course, father. You can count on me to be there.”
The corner of Lucius Malfoy’s lip curled upward slightly.
“Good. I hope you do know what this means in terms of your free time, however.”
Draco nodded, suddenly feeling a little uncertain. As excited as he was to learn more about what happened behind closed doors, to busy himself with matters of politics of a higher echelon, he wanted the freedom to explore his own path too.
“Don’t give up being a Prefect. You will work diligently toward becoming Head Boy of your year, of course. But this business with Quiddich… I don’t see that fitting into your schedule any longer.”
And there it was. The real reason for pulling Draco aside. His sense of excitement and hope at being included in his father’s secret society drained out of him when he realized what it would cost him.
“Father, I was one of the youngest Seekers at Hogwarts. Second only to that half-blood Potter. You’ve seen me fly, you’ve seen what I can do—”
Lucius held up his hand, cutting his son’s desperate pleas.
“Second to Potter,” he repeated. “Generally that is how your matches turn out, is it not? It does not reflect well on our family, Draco.”
A single burst from the train signaled its imminent departure.
“Do as you’re told and quit the team or there will be consequences,” Lucius said, his voice even. “You have far more important things to be doing with your time than playing games, especially at your age.”
After a hurried goodbye to his mother, Draco made his way up into the Hogwarts Express. His face was burning red, his eyes flinty. Most of the train compartments had already filled up over the time he’d been arguing with his father. Belatedly he realized it hadn’t been much of an argument; he’d barely had a chance to speak at all, let alone explain his position properly.
It dawned on him that his father had planned it that way. Timed it just so he would be able to deliver the command to his son and at the same time deny him the opportunity to debate it.
The train moving beneath him demanded his immediate attention. Looking around, he struggled to find other Slytherins—it seemed he’d found himself in a primarily Hufflepuff occupied car. The dark wood paneling and gas lamps spaced every so often gave the interior of the Hogwarts Express a decidedly moody atmosphere, even in spite of the bright, late-morning sunshine. Ordinarily he might have enjoyed the ambiance, but at the moment it only served to remind him more of his home, and thus, his father. A deep scowl etched into his sharp features, he pressed onward up the train, looking for compartments with Slytherins. Even ones he didn’t know would do.
Suddenly, someone collided into him as he rounded a particularly dark bend.
“Ouch!” Came a startled cry, a girl’s voice.
Malfoy grunted in surprise and annoyance, and took a hasty step backward to get a better look at who had just interrupted his thoughts.
“Oh,” he said, his voice harsh. “Imagine my shock, of all the people to get in the way.”
Three girls had been lurking in the darkened bend, the youngest Weasley girl, the mudblood Granger, and the one everyone called Looney. The latter was holding a miniature frog, and appeared quite distraught. It seemed to be glowing in a variety of bizarre patterns, flickering feebly.
“You squished him…” Looney said, her voice quivering. She gave the frog a gentle stroke and it emitted a faint croak before righting itself on her palm and blinking a few times. All three girls let out their breath. “Oh, thank goodness,” Hermione said, putting a hand to her heart.
Draco tsked at the sight of them. “I can understand Looney crouching in a corner playing with a frog. But you, Weasley, blood-traitor that you are, I still expected better.” He deigned to not even acknowledge Hermione’s presence.
“Her name’s not Looney,” Ginny replied, her eyes burning with sudden anger. She raised her wand and jabbed it in Malfoy’s direction. “This is none of your business.”
Draco shrugged and sidestepped the group, raising his hands in a gesture of ‘I-really-could-not-care-less.’
“Ordinarily I might have traded blows with you, but I’m in a rather foul mood. I’ll leave you and your mudblood to whatever—”
“Ranunculus,” Ginny shouted from behind him, and a crackling bolt of golden-green light rippled through the intervening air—which would have hit him, had he not deftly sidestepped into a nook between two compartments. Her Froggening Jinx happened to strike a smartly-dressed Ravenclaw who’d been slowly walking down the aisle, an enchanted clipboard and quill hovering just in front of her.
Both items fell to the floor with a crash, inkpot spilling. In place of the student were his pair of horn-rimmed glasses and a very irate yellow-skinned toad.
Draco wheeled on Ginny.
“Huge mistake, Weasley,” he murmured. “If it wasn’t already apparent, that was a Prefect you just jinxed.”
“Only because you dived out of the way, you coward.”
He advanced toward her, wand still level. His malice grew with each step he took.
“You really don’t like it when I call her mudblood, do you?” He said, and delighted in how the trio flinched at his words. His eyes flicked over to Hermione, his complete and utter lack of regard slipping for just a moment. He hoped what she saw reflected there was pure enmity.
“Oi, Malfoy,” came a shout from behind him. “You ferrety git, look what you’ve gone and done.”
Ron Weasley and Harry Potter were standing behind him, their wands also raised. Behind them, Dean Thomas was busying himself with scooping up the jinxed Prefect along with his glasses.
“What I’ve gone and done?” He sneered. “It was your sister that jinxed the Prefect. Should work on her aim sometime. I’m sure Potter would be just delighted to show her.”
Ron flushed scarlet and seemed about to say something, or perhaps throw a curse. But Harry threw out his arm to hold him off, and shook his head.
“No, Draco. I saw you. You did it so you wouldn’t get in trouble.”
“What kind of sense would that make, a Prefect attacking a Pref—Ah.” It dawned on him what was going on. Hermione Granger, she too was a Prefect in his year, and she’d “seen” the whole thing happen, too. Any further argument on his part would be pointless. If he hadn’t hated Harry’s guts, he could’ve perhaps respected the play.
“A slimy move if ever there was one, Potter,” he said.
“You would know.”
Draco frowned. “You wound me,” he drawled, sarcastically. “Only, your little plan won’t work.”
“Oh? Really? I expect Headmaster Dumbledore will be very concerned to know one of his Prefects has been acting.”
“And there he goes, sucking up to his betters every time. When are you going to fight your own fights, Snotter? Ah, that’s right…” Harry stiffened at the nickname. Where Harry may have controlled the Quiddich pitch, Hogwarts’ semi-underground Dueling Club was and always had been Draco’s. One particularly bad day for Harry had left him with a nose the size of a grapefruit, spraying purple snot in seven directions.
Draco was winding him up intentionally. He was hoping that Harry would take the bait and attack him. The one thing that was genuinely troubling him was whether or not the Prefect would be able to remember properly who had actually cast the spell. A nice bit of clever thinking on Potter’s part, expecting to get him detention, could in fact cost him his position.
“Let’s leave,” Harry said, his voice flat and controlled. There was a tiny smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Before Draco goes and hexes any more of us.”
As Draco lowered his wand and scoffed, Ginny groaned.
“Alright, alright. Enough. It was me,” she said, performing the counter-jinx. The tiny frog swelled grotesquely, unfolding from within itself, until a slime-soaked and bedraggled Ravenclaw boy with blond hair was lying prone on the compartment floor. She gave Harry a withering look. “That’s the sort of thing you’d expect from a Malfoy. Don’t be like him, Harry. Be better.” This jab, she aimed at Draco, who flushed. Harry laughed, a sound Draco had learned to hate to the very core of his being.
The gall of him, of them. To act better than me when he’s a half-blood who associates with other pond scum. To fight so hard to champion garbage, with a name as ancient and well-regarded as mine.
He hated how Harry had commanded that interaction. He, a regular student. Draco was a Prefect and he’d been outmaneuvered by Potter. And they weren’t even on the Quiddich pitch.
In and around his dark thoughts, Draco felt relief wash over him, cold sweat condensing on the small of his back. He was disgusted with himself for how much better he felt, on account of Ginny’s admission. He watched them walk away together, laughing and throwing carefully worded, pointed comments his way. It seemed the Ravenclaw Prefect was just glad to be included in something—though he had of course given Ginny a week’s worth of detention for the jinx.
Draco surprised himself as he finally made his way to the compartment where Crabbe and Goyle were, discussing something utterly unimportant. As he reflected on what had just happened, the faces he’d witnessed, he had come to realize there was a face there that he had truly despised. He hated them all, of course, but to truly despise… They had to go beyond the pale. Exemplify the epitome of everything about blood traitors and mixed mutts, the worst of the Wizarding world.
It wasn’t Ginny, for trying to jinx him. She was protecting her friend, the mudblood Granger. It wasn’t Harry, or Ron, or even Dean, though he loathed Dean for being dark skinned in addition to a half-blood. It wasn’t even Granger herself.
No, the face he’d loathed the most out of all of it was that Looney girl. The Ravenclaw. The Reparo QuikFix bandages across the bridge of her nose in pastel hues, the large, circular glasses perched on the bridge of her nose making her look like some engorged insect. Worst of all was her expression. She always looked so dreamy and stupid, lost in a vacuous chasm of her own withered mind. But the immensely sad expression she’d worn when she thought the worst of her stupid frog. To care so much for something so trivial. To be bothered by the fate of a random pet when opportunity and power were all around, ripe for the picking. She ought to have been a Muggle. Living in triviality suited her much more properly, Draco decided.
He would give her something to be sad about.
