The Chronicles of Draco Malfoy
This is a story of redemption. This is a story of a miracle boy; a young man who, in spite of difficult, impossible odds, manages to survive in a harsh, bitter world; surrounded by his friends, his followers, and all the people who—
And then my muse comes in, rereads what I've written, and critically says, this sounds so much like a Harry Potter story.
But this isn't the story of one sodding Harry Potter, you idiot. Can't you read? It's written there on top, 'The Chronicles of Draco Malfoy' and as such this story is and will forever be about yours truly. I will be telling my life story in this – the start of a seven-book series - and I guarantee that it will be on top of Flourish and Blott's bestseller list once I get it printed and out in the market.
"This will be phenomenal," I mutter to myself.
Because there's nothing in this damned world I can't do that won't be phenomenal. I'm gifted that way.
A sound very much like a pop resounds in the room. "You talking to yourself again?" a bespectacled, green-eyed monster aptly named Harry Potter asks rather stupidly from his place near the doorway.
I look at him, and not for the first time I wonder why is it that nature made such a cruel mistake in bringing him to life.
But, you know, I have no issues whatsoever with this bespectacled freak with poor eyesight. I have grown into a beautiful, forgiving man. I know now how to live and let live.
Potter stares at me expectantly, like he's waiting for an answer. Then he looks down at my parchment and quill and raises his brow. Surreptitiously, I slide my tools away from his maltreated eyes. The world isn't ready for my talent yet, you see. "Nothing," I say.
Then he frowns, like my answer isn't intelligent enough for the likes of him. HA! You wish, Potter!
And then I reconsider his question, and my answer…
"What brings you here, Potter?" I ask him snidely, because there's no way in hell I will not be intentionally slipping bits of my inherently evil personality in my manner of speaking, especially when I'm talking to lower-than-myself-and-everything-else-Gryffindors.
"I'm helping you move out, remember?"
I can almost hear the lot of you moan and groan and tell yourselves, oh, how high has the mighty fallen, or something stupid like that. Or something else, like, how is it that the magnificent, magnanimous Draco Malfoy get to be so low as to do something like receive help from Harry sodding Potter?
Well. Desperate times calls for desperate measures. Plus, with all our house elves liberated – damn you Hermione Granger! - I have to accept all the help I can get.
Even if they are from one Harry sodding Potter.
I evilly point at my bags and say, "Just get those out and into my new manor. Do remember that I expect to have the entire east wing for myself only. I don't intend to share a spectacular view of sunrise with anyone, and—"
Potter shakes his head. "You're not moving into a new manor, you idiot. It's a flat. A one-bathroom, single-bedroom flat."
"We already talked about this, remember?" he says in a pathetic attempt to be helpful. "I already told you all there is you need to know about my place."
And then I do remember bits of the useless conversation he alludes to, because I think my brain subconsciously tried to hide that in my memory, because it knows that the fact of my moving in with Harry Potter will traumatize me immensely.
Fortunately, there will be two doors separating us. I think. I mean, I think I remember him saying we'll be living in two separate rooms across from each other.
Alarm bells resound in my head. What if…
"Remind me the details of my moving in with you," I tell him loftily, hoping that my voice doesn't betray my inner turmoil.
He sighs. He does that a lot, you know. "You'll be taking Ron's old room, the one across from mine, and—"
OH THANK GOD.
Imagine; if we are to share the same room… oh, the images are just too sickening. If we are, though, then that means I will have to tolerate his bedraggled, bespectacled appearance every minute of every day of my waking life! The horror! Seeing his ugly scar every day, imagine the mental scars it will give me!
I will much rather kiss a Dementor.
Or… not, actually.
"—it's on the west part of—"
That catches my attention again. "West?" I ask.
He sighs. Again. See? He always does that! "Yes."
I lift my chin. "Then that means yours is – technically – on the east."
He thinks about it, and says, "Yeah."
Indignation burns through me. That is so unfair. Just when I want something, I find out that Harry sodding Potter has already gone and laid claim to what I want.
Look. Another damned reason to hate the bastard!
But I'm not bitter, you arse. I already told you that I'm above and beyond the petty issues of my childhood, thank you very much.
"Do you still plan to move in?"
I'm very tempted to say no. After all, I'm still in my manor, and according to the deed in my pocket I have until the end of the month to stay here. That's two weeks away. Perhaps I can find a more suitable location for me, a place where my right to have the sunrise to myself can be respected and followed. I still have fourteen days to stay here and pretend that everything's the way they always were, that Mother's only in her dressing room grooming herself while Father's in the library reading the latest reports about Voldemort.
But the money's already with me, and there's no sense in staying in a place that's no longer mine. There's no sense in pretending anymore.
"Yes," I say. Quietly.
In an evil sort of way, of course.
He nods. "Right. I'll get these bags to your new place." And off he goes.
And in a few minutes, I follow.
The first thing I notice the moment I arrived is that the room is very, very dark.
"Potter!" I bellow. Don't tell me – Weasley forgot to pay his bills before he left, and now I'm to suffer the consequences? Of all the rotten, ill-willed, nasty-- "Where the bloody hell are you? You sick, sick—"
And then the light flickers on and seemingly a million voices scream at me, "SURPRISE!"
Um, no, I didn't scream. Honest.
I look around me, at the grinning faces of Potter and Weasley and Pansy, and I want to throttle them, one by one, until they're on the very last breath of their life.
"Bet you didn't expect that, did you?" Weasley asks, all proud and mighty of what he and his cohorts did.
Bet you won't expect my fist on your face, Weasel! But I do nothing of the sort. The poor boy – pun very much intended – is taller than me, and I'm not in the mood to hit something that can hit me back.
"Look!" Pansy spreads her arms wide and gestures around her. "Do you like it? I decorated your flat for you."
And I'll tell you to stop using your feminine touches, Pansy. They're sickening, actually. But, er. Weasley is standing by his 'woman'. See my reason for not wanting to be hit.
Potter pats me on the shoulder – I bite down the urge to punch him, because personally I don't like to be touched – and says, "Your bags are in your room. If you need anything, just—hey!"
Then Pansy grabs my arm and pulls me to a table. "Come on. Eat! You must be starving." And on the table there are colorful flowers and plates of sandwiches and a pitcher of pumpkin juice and some bottles of Butterbeer.
I still want to throttle them, though. Mark my words. One of these days I shall carry out my decidedly nefarious scheme and soon people will find three persons dead from asphyxiation.
I grab a sandwich and a bottle, and while I eat I look around my new… domain. Territory. Malfoy HQ. Whatever. And as I do… I shudder, moan, groan. In that order. The flat is so absurdly small, it might just suffocate me. I mean, two steps and I'm in kitchen, three steps and there's the door, four steps and there's the bedroom.
Where's the library? The music room? The thirty or so spare rooms? I almost scoff. Even my bathroom's bigger than this!
"What do you think?" Weasley asks, looking around also. He wears a very frightening look on his face. Please, someone, punch him to make it go away. "I remember when I used to live here. I loved this place. It's so comfortable! No brothers or sister to bother you for miles… absolute heaven." He sits on the sofa and leans back. Weasley shoots me a look. "You're a lucky bastard, Malfoy."
Er. Right. His statement just affirms my belief to never trust his absurd judgment.
"Do you like it?" Pansy asks eagerly.
Option one: lie and tell them I like it. Then they won't believe me and Pansy will just nag me to tell her how much I really like it until I beat my head repeatedly and lose consciousness.
Option two: be honest and tell them I loathe it. Then they won't believe me but Weasley will punch my brains out for insulting his former home.
"So sorry I'm late, but Ron, this better be important—"
--do nothing but look at Granger's rather grand and self-important entrance.
"—I was in the middle of a meeting and I had to leave when you called because…" She takes off her cloak and puts it on the sofa, then looks up and stares at me. Granger looks very surprised, then flushed, then angry. "Malfoy. You're… here," she states.
"Very observant of you," I return.
And before I can even continue, she dismisses me and looks at Harry instead. "Why is he here?"
"You're late," Pansy said loudly, before Potter can speak.
Granger frowns. "For what? What's going on?"
Weasley scratches his head. "Er. Didn't I tell you?"
She looks like she's about to throttle Weasley until he's dead.
Well. That should be interesting to watch.
"Wait. I did tell you that Pansy and I decided to move in together, right? It was right after—"
Granger impatiently shakes her head. "Yes, yes, you told me that already. But my question is, what is he doing here?" She points at me, her finger very close to my nose.
I smirk. "Never knew subtlety's one of your weaker points, Granger." What'll she do if I bite that finger, I wonder?
"Shut up, Malfoy," she says acidly. "Ron. Talk."
Weasley looks at Pansy, who merely grins at him. He grunts in reply.
It must be pure torture to be in Weasley's place right now. Imagine having to explain yourself to a very angry bush that – in a few moments – will jump at you and suffocate you to death.
"Ron, I will count to ten and so help me if you don't explain yourself I'll—"
'--jump on you and suffocate you to death.' I thought so.
He adjusts his collar and says, "Right. Um, well, Malfoy got rid of his manor and he needs a place to stay. I figured, since I won't be using this one, I'd let him take over the rent."
"You were late for his welcoming party, you see," Pansy elaborates her earlier statement. "Draco's moving in today."
It's fun to look at Granger's face. There's a lot of expressions lurking there, and now it looks like she really, really wants to hit someone. She turns to Potter. "And you didn't tell me? You didn't… object to this?"
He shrugs. "I can't see why I should, or why you should, for that matter."
So Potter's not afraid of suffocation, is he?
Granger purses her lips. "A word, if you may." And she marches in the direction of the tiny and cramped kitchen.
Potter shrugs at me and follows.
A lengthy silence ensues among Pansy, Weasley, and me, only to be interrupted by Weasley's sharp cry as Pansy steps hard on his foot. "I told you!" she all but shrieks. "I told you not to invite her here!"
He rubs his foot. "But she'll be angry if—"
"As opposed to such a joy she's being right now? You're such a—"
I leave them to their inane quarrel and walk to the table which is – conveniently - very near the door of the tiny and cramped kitchen. I grab another sandwich and strive hard to not listen to Pansy and Weasley so I can tune in to Potter and Granger's conversation.
After all, they are talking about me.
"I told you I don't want him here. I don't want him anywhere near me!"
Whatever is she on about? Unless she lives with Potter, there's no way in hell that I'll be anywhere near her!
Wait. Does she live with Potter? Do they have some sort of illicit love affair that—
Ugh. The very image of them – doing illicit things together - makes me ill.
"You go to work unreasonably early and go home late. You won't even see him."
"But knowing that his flat is just beneath mine—"
Images of me prodding the ceiling with the handle of a broom just to annoy Granger pop into my mind. Very, very entertaining indeed.
"Look. Hermione. I know that there're still some things between you and Malfoy that needed sorting out. But look at him. He needs our help. He has no one else. No one. You, of all people - can't you understand that?"
My easy mood vanishes in an instant. So. The great Harry Potter feels pity for me, eh? No one pities Draco Malfoy. No one.
The last one who did… well. Check him up in Azkaban. Room fifteen, fourteenth floor.
Silence. Then, "No, Harry. I can't. I won't. Ever. Because if he is alone, then maybe he deserves to be alone."
"I'm sorry I can't be as good or gullible or accepting as you and Ron apparently are. But I'm not a hypocrite, Harry. I know what type of person Malfoy is. And you think a person like that can easily change? You're an idiot if you do. I'm leaving." A loud pop serves as the punctuation of that statement.
Then Harry comes out of the kitchen looking like he's just barely survived a war. "I'm tired. I think I'll turn in," he mutters, then walks to the door and lets himself out.
I follow him and watch as he goes in his own room. I look up when I hear heavy steps trailing on the ceiling. Granger, no doubt.
Because if he is alone, then maybe he deserves to be alone.
And suddenly I just want to sleep.
Pansy must've picked up on my currently somber mood because she drags Weasley to the door, says, "Call us if you need anything," quickly kisses me on the cheek, and sets out.
And then, indeed, I am alone. Thank you for reminding me, Hermione Granger.
But, at least I have people around to annoy when I'm bored.
Author's Notes: This fic is an attempt of two things: writing in first-person POV, and using present tense. The idea grew on me and I couldn't wait to write it down, and this is the result. I hope you'll be there when chapter two comes!
Woohoo! Two new fics in barely a month! Yay!